All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet Being Sixty and three in Number. Collected into one Volume by the Author [i.e. John Taylor]: With sundry new Additions, corrected, reuised, and newly Imprinted |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
A SAD, IOYFVLL, LAMENTABLE, DELIGHTFVLL, MERRY-GO-SORRY ELEGY OR FVNERALL POEM VPON the supposed death of the famous Cosmographicall Surueior, and Historiographicall Relator, Mr Thomas Coriat of Odcomb.
O for a rope of Onions from Saint Omers,
And for the muse of golden tongued Homers,
That I might write and weepe, and weep and write,
Odcombian Coriats timelesse last good-night,
O were my wit inspir'd with Scoggins vaine,
Or that Will Summons ghost had seaz'd my braine:
Or Tarlton, Lanum, Singer, Kempe and Pope,
Or she that danc'r and tumbled on the rope,
Or Tilting Archy, that so brauely ran
Against Don Phebus knight, that wordy man.
O all you crue, in side pi'd coloured garments,
Assist me to the height of your preferments:
And with your wits and spirits inspire my pate ful,
That I in Coriats praise be not ingratefull.
If euer age lamented losse of folly,
If euer man had cause of Melancholly,
Then now's the time to waile his ruthlesse wracke,
And weepe in teares of Claret and of Sack.
And for the muse of golden tongued Homers,
That I might write and weepe, and weep and write,
Odcombian Coriats timelesse last good-night,
O were my wit inspir'd with Scoggins vaine,
Or that Will Summons ghost had seaz'd my braine:
Or Tarlton, Lanum, Singer, Kempe and Pope,
Or she that danc'r and tumbled on the rope,
Or Tilting Archy, that so brauely ran
Against Don Phebus knight, that wordy man.
O all you crue, in side pi'd coloured garments,
Assist me to the height of your preferments:
And with your wits and spirits inspire my pate ful,
That I in Coriats praise be not ingratefull.
If euer age lamented losse of folly,
If euer man had cause of Melancholly,
Then now's the time to waile his ruthlesse wracke,
And weepe in teares of Claret and of Sack.
And now, according to my weake inuention,
His wondrous worthles worthines I'l mention;
Yet to describe him as he is, or was,
The wit of Men or monsters would surpasse.
His head was a large poudring tub of phrases,
Whēce men would pick delites, as boys pick daises,
O head no head, but block house of fierce wars,
Where wit and learning were at dully lars,
Who should possesse the Mansion of his pate:
But at the last, to end this great debate
Admired learning tooke his heads possession,
And turnd his wit a wandring in progression.
But Minyon Muse, hold, whither wilt thou goe?
Thinkst thou his rare anatomy to shew?
None borne a Christian, Turke, nor yet in Tartary,
Can write each veyne, each sinew, and each artery.
His eyes and eares like Broakers by extortion,
Ingrost strange forraine manners and proportion,
But what his eyes and eares did see or heare,
His tongue or pen discharg'd the reckoning cleare.
That sure I thinke, he well could proue by law,
He vttered more then e'r he heard or saw.
His tongue and hands haue truly paid their score,
And freely spent what they receiu'd and more.
But lord to see, how farre o'r-shot am I,
To wade thus deepe in his Anatomy!
What now he is, I'l lightly overpasse,
I'l onely write in part, but what he was.
That as Grim Death our pleasures thus hath crost,
Tis good, because he's gon, to know what's lost.
His wondrous worthles worthines I'l mention;
Yet to describe him as he is, or was,
The wit of Men or monsters would surpasse.
His head was a large poudring tub of phrases,
Whēce men would pick delites, as boys pick daises,
O head no head, but block house of fierce wars,
Where wit and learning were at dully lars,
Who should possesse the Mansion of his pate:
But at the last, to end this great debate
Admired learning tooke his heads possession,
And turnd his wit a wandring in progression.
But Minyon Muse, hold, whither wilt thou goe?
Thinkst thou his rare anatomy to shew?
None borne a Christian, Turke, nor yet in Tartary,
Can write each veyne, each sinew, and each artery.
His eyes and eares like Broakers by extortion,
Ingrost strange forraine manners and proportion,
But what his eyes and eares did see or heare,
His tongue or pen discharg'd the reckoning cleare.
That sure I thinke, he well could proue by law,
He vttered more then e'r he heard or saw.
His tongue and hands haue truly paid their score,
And freely spent what they receiu'd and more.
But lord to see, how farre o'r-shot am I,
To wade thus deepe in his Anatomy!
What now he is, I'l lightly overpasse,
I'l onely write in part, but what he was.
That as Grim Death our pleasures thus hath crost,
Tis good, because he's gon, to know what's lost.
Hee was the Imp, whilst he on earth suruiu'd,
From whom this west-worlds pastimes were deriu'd,
He was in City, Country, field, & Court,
The Well of dry braind lests, and Pump of sport.
He was the treasure-house of wrinckled laughter,
Where melancholly moods are put to slaughter:
And in a word, he was a man 'mongst many,
That neuer yet was paralleld by any:
Who now like him in spite of wind and weather
Will weare one shiftlesse shirt 5. months together?
Who now to doe his natiue country grace,
Will for a Trophee execute his case?
Who now will take the height of euery Gallowes?
Or who'l describe the signe of euery Alchouse?
Whether his Host were bigge, or short, or tall,
And whether he did knock e'r he did call:
The colour of his Host and Hostesse haire?
What he bought cheap, & what he paid for deare!
For Veale or Mutton what he paid a ioynt?
Where he sate down? and where he loos'd a poynt?
Each Tower, each Turret, and each lofty steeple,
Who now (like him) wil tel the vulgar people?
Who now will set aworke so many writers,
As he hath done in spite of his back-biters,
With Panegericks, Anagrams, Acrosticks,
T'emblazon him the chiefe among fantasticks?
Alas, not one, not one aliue doth liue,
That to the world can such contentment glue,
Should Poets stretch their Muses on the racke,
And study till their pericranions cracke.
Should foot-back trotting Trauellers intend
To match his trauels, all were to no end.
Let Poets' write their best, and trotters run,
They ne'r shall write nor run as he hath done.
From whom this west-worlds pastimes were deriu'd,
He was in City, Country, field, & Court,
The Well of dry braind lests, and Pump of sport.
61
Where melancholly moods are put to slaughter:
And in a word, he was a man 'mongst many,
That neuer yet was paralleld by any:
Who now like him in spite of wind and weather
Will weare one shiftlesse shirt 5. months together?
Who now to doe his natiue country grace,
Will for a Trophee execute his case?
Who now will take the height of euery Gallowes?
Or who'l describe the signe of euery Alchouse?
Whether his Host were bigge, or short, or tall,
And whether he did knock e'r he did call:
The colour of his Host and Hostesse haire?
What he bought cheap, & what he paid for deare!
For Veale or Mutton what he paid a ioynt?
Where he sate down? and where he loos'd a poynt?
Each Tower, each Turret, and each lofty steeple,
Who now (like him) wil tel the vulgar people?
Who now will set aworke so many writers,
As he hath done in spite of his back-biters,
With Panegericks, Anagrams, Acrosticks,
T'emblazon him the chiefe among fantasticks?
Alas, not one, not one aliue doth liue,
That to the world can such contentment glue,
Should Poets stretch their Muses on the racke,
And study till their pericranions cracke.
Should foot-back trotting Trauellers intend
To match his trauels, all were to no end.
Let Poets' write their best, and trotters run,
They ne'r shall write nor run as he hath done.
Bvt
Neptune and great Æolus contending,
'Gainst one another all their forces bending,
Which of them soon'st should rob the happy earth
Of this rare man of men, this map of mirth.
And like two enuious great ambitious Lords,
They fell at deepe and dangerous discords;
The sea-god with his three-tin'd angry Rod com,
And swore by Styx, he would haue Tom of Odcomb.
With that, sterne Eole blew a boystrous blast,
And in his rage did gusts and tempests cast
In showring vollyes at fierce Neptunes head:
Who like a valiant Champion scorning dread,
Gaue blow for blow with his commanding Mace,
And spitting stormes in spitefull Eols face,
That golden Titan hid his glistring ray,
As fearing to behold this horrid fray.
Cimerian darknesse curtain'd all the world,
An Ebon Mantle o'r the Globe was hurld,
The wallowing waues turmoild the restless ships,
Like School-boies shuttlecocks that leaps & skips,
The Top-mast seemes to play with Phœbus nose,
Strait downe toward Erebus amaine she goes;
Blow wind, quoth Neptune, till thy entrails breake,
Against my force, thy force shall be too weake.
Then like two fooles at variance for a trifle,
They split the ship, they enter and they rifle,
Like cursed Law-wormes, enuious and cruell,
Striuing to seaze the peerelesse matchlesse Iewell,
Whilst Eole sought aboue the skies to crown him;
Blue-bearded Neptune in his arms did drown him.
The Wind-god sees the prize and battell lost,
Blowes, stormes, and rages to be curb'd and crost,
And vow'd to rowze great Neptune in his Court,
And in his teeth his iniury retort:
Then he commands retreat to all his forces;
Who riding sundry waies on winged horses,
Bigge Boreas to the freezing North went puffing,
And slauering Auster, to the South went huffing,
Eurus went East, and Zephyrus went West,
And thus the warres of windes and seas did rest.
'Gainst one another all their forces bending,
Which of them soon'st should rob the happy earth
Of this rare man of men, this map of mirth.
And like two enuious great ambitious Lords,
They fell at deepe and dangerous discords;
The sea-god with his three-tin'd angry Rod com,
And swore by Styx, he would haue Tom of Odcomb.
With that, sterne Eole blew a boystrous blast,
And in his rage did gusts and tempests cast
In showring vollyes at fierce Neptunes head:
Who like a valiant Champion scorning dread,
Gaue blow for blow with his commanding Mace,
And spitting stormes in spitefull Eols face,
That golden Titan hid his glistring ray,
As fearing to behold this horrid fray.
Cimerian darknesse curtain'd all the world,
An Ebon Mantle o'r the Globe was hurld,
The wallowing waues turmoild the restless ships,
Like School-boies shuttlecocks that leaps & skips,
The Top-mast seemes to play with Phœbus nose,
Strait downe toward Erebus amaine she goes;
Blow wind, quoth Neptune, till thy entrails breake,
Against my force, thy force shall be too weake.
Then like two fooles at variance for a trifle,
They split the ship, they enter and they rifle,
Like cursed Law-wormes, enuious and cruell,
Striuing to seaze the peerelesse matchlesse Iewell,
Whilst Eole sought aboue the skies to crown him;
Blue-bearded Neptune in his arms did drown him.
The Wind-god sees the prize and battell lost,
Blowes, stormes, and rages to be curb'd and crost,
And vow'd to rowze great Neptune in his Court,
And in his teeth his iniury retort:
Then he commands retreat to all his forces;
Who riding sundry waies on winged horses,
Bigge Boreas to the freezing North went puffing,
And slauering Auster, to the South went huffing,
Eurus went East, and Zephyrus went West,
And thus the warres of windes and seas did rest.
And now dame Thetis in thy vasty womb,
Is odde Odcombians Coriats timelesse Toomb,
Where Nayads, Dryads, and sweet sea-nimphs tend
And with their daily seruice do befriend him,
There al-shap'd Proteus and shrill trumping Triton, him,
And many more, which I can hardly write on,
As if it were the thing they glory at,
In seruile troopes they wait on Coriat,
That though like hell, the sea were far more dark, as
Yet these would guard his vnregarded carkasse.
You Academick, Latine, Greeke Magisters,
You off-springs of the three times treble Sisters,
Write, study, teach, vntil your toūgs haue blisters.
For, now the Haddocks, and the shifting Sharks,
That feed on Coriat, will become great Clarks:
The wri-mouth'd Place, & mumping Whiting-mops,
Wil in their mawes keep Greeke and Latine shops,
The Pork-like Porpose, Thorn-back, and the State,
Like studious Grecian Latinists will prate,
And men with eating them, by inspiration,
With these two toūgs, shall fill each barbarous Nation.
Then though the Sea hath rudely him bereft vs;
Yet, midst our woes, this onely comfort's left vs,
That our posterities by eating fishes,
Shall pick his wisdome out of diuers dishes;
And then (no doubt) but thousands more will be
As learned, or perhaps all as wise-men as he:
But to conclude, affection makes me cry,
Sorrow prouokes me sleep, griefe dries mine eye.
Is odde Odcombians Coriats timelesse Toomb,
Where Nayads, Dryads, and sweet sea-nimphs tend
And with their daily seruice do befriend him,
There al-shap'd Proteus and shrill trumping Triton, him,
And many more, which I can hardly write on,
As if it were the thing they glory at,
In seruile troopes they wait on Coriat,
That though like hell, the sea were far more dark, as
Yet these would guard his vnregarded carkasse.
You Academick, Latine, Greeke Magisters,
You off-springs of the three times treble Sisters,
Write, study, teach, vntil your toūgs haue blisters.
For, now the Haddocks, and the shifting Sharks,
That feed on Coriat, will become great Clarks:
The wri-mouth'd Place, & mumping Whiting-mops,
Wil in their mawes keep Greeke and Latine shops,
The Pork-like Porpose, Thorn-back, and the State,
Like studious Grecian Latinists will prate,
And men with eating them, by inspiration,
With these two toūgs, shall fill each barbarous Nation.
Then though the Sea hath rudely him bereft vs;
Yet, midst our woes, this onely comfort's left vs,
That our posterities by eating fishes,
Shall pick his wisdome out of diuers dishes;
And then (no doubt) but thousands more will be
As learned, or perhaps all as wise-men as he:
But to conclude, affection makes me cry,
Sorrow prouokes me sleep, griefe dries mine eye.
62
[Epitaph in the Vtopian tongue.] The same in English, translated by Caleb Quishquash, an Utopian borne, and principall Secretary to the great Adelontado of Barmoodoes.
Here lies the wonder of the English Nation,Inuolu'd in Neptunes brinish vasty maw:
For fruitlesse trauell, and for strange relation,
He past and repast all that e'r eye saw.
Odcomb produc'd him; many Nations fed him,
And worlds of Writers, through the world haue spred him.
FINIS.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |