TO THE GENTLEMEN READERS, THAT vnderstand A.B. from a Battledore.
No
sooner newes of Coriats death was com,
But with the same, my Muse was strookē dom:
For whilst he liued, he was my Muses subiect,
Her onely life, and sense sole pleasing obiect.
Odcōbian, Græcian, Latin, Great Thom Asse
He being dead, what life hath she alasse.
But yet I hope his death was false Report,
Or else 'twas rumord to beget some sport:
To try how his deare friends would take his death,
And what rare Epicediums they would make,
T' accompany his all-lamented Herse,
In hobling, iobling, rumbling, tumbling verse,
Some smooth, some harsh, some shorter, & some long:
As sweet Melodious as Madge Howlets song:
But, when I saw that no man tooke in hand
To make the world his worth to vnderstand,
Then vp I bussled from Obliuions den,
And of a Ganders quill I made a pen,
With which I wrote this following worke of woe,
(Not caring much if he be dead or no:)
For, whilst his body did containe a life,
The rarest wits were at continuall strife,
Who should exceed each other in his glory,
But none but I haue writ His Tragick story.
If he be dead, then farewell he: if not,
At his returne, his thankes shall be thy lot,
Meane time, my Muse doth like an humble Pleader
Intreat acceptance of the gentle Reader.
Remaining yours euer, Iohn Taylor.
