University of Virginia Library

LAVGH, AND BE FAT.

Now Monsieur Coriat, let them laugh that wins,
For I assure ye now the game begins.
'Tis wondrous strange how your opinions vary,
From iudgement, sence, or reason so contrary;
That with infamous rash timerity.
You raile at me with such seuerity,
The broad-fac'd Iests that other men put on you,
You take for fauours well bestow'd vpon you.
In sport they giue you many a pleasant cuffe,
Yet no mans lines but mine, you take in snuffe.
Which makes the ancient Prouerbe be in force,
That some may with more safety steale a horse,
Then others may looke on: for still it falls.
The weakest alwayes must goe to the walls.
I need not vse this Etymology,
My plainer meaning to exemplifie;
Which doth induce me to expresse the cause,
That my vntutor'd Pen to writing drawes.
Be it to all men by these presents knowne,
That lately to the world was plainely showne,
In a huge volume Gogmagoticall,
In Verse and Prose, with speech dogmaticall,
Thy wondrous Trauels from thy natiue home,
How Odly out thou went'st and Odly Come.
And how, as fitted best thy Workes of worth,
The rarest Wits thy Booke did vsher forth.
But I alas, to make thy same more fuller,
Did lately write a Pamphlet call'd the Souller:
In which, as vnto others of my friends,
I sent to thee (braue Monsieur) kind commends,
Which thou in double dudgeon tak'st from me,
And vow'st, and swor'st, thou wilt reuenged be.
The cause, I heare, your fury flameth from,
I said, I was no dunce-combe, cox-combe Tom:
What's that to you (good Sir) that you should fume,
Or rage, or chafe, or thinke I durst presume
To speake, or write, that you are such a one?
I onely said, that I my selfe was none.
Yet Sir, I'l be a Cocks-combe if so please you,
If you are ouer-laden, Sir, I'l ease you,
Your store of witlesse wisdome in your budget,
To giue your friend a little neuer grudge it.
Nor that from Odcombs towne I first began,
Nor that I Greeke or Latine gabble can.
I am no Odcombe Tom, why, what of that?
Nor nothing but bare English can I chat.
I pray what wrong is this to you good Sur?
Your indignation why should this incurre?
Nor that I thought our Land had spent her store,
That I need visit Venice for a whore;
Which (if I would) I could make neerer proofes,
And not (like you) so farre to gall my hoofes.
I said, If such a volume I should make,
The rarest wits would scorne such paines to take,
At my returne, amidst my skarre-crow totters,
To runne before me like so many trotters.
I know, my merits neuer will be such,
That they should deigne to honour me so much.
I further said, I enuied not your state,
For you had nothing worthy of my hate.
In loue, your innocence I truly pitty,
Your plentious want of wit seemes wondrous wittie.
Your vertue cannot breed my hatefull lothing,
For what an asse were I, to hate iust nothing
Your vice I hate not, neither, I protest,
But loue, and laugh, and like it like the rest.
Your vice, nor vertue, manners, nor your forme,
Can breed in me fell enuies hatefull worme.
I said it was a lodging most vnfit,
Within an idle braine to house your wit.
Here, I confesse, my fault I cannot hide,
You were not idle, nor well occupide.
Be't faire, or foule, be't early, or be't late,
Your simple wit lies in your humble pate.
A King sometimes may in a cottage lye.
And Lyons rest in swines contagious stye:
So your rare wit that's euer at the full,
Lyes in the caue of your rotundious skull,
Vntill your wisedomes pleasure send it forth,
From East to West, from South vnto the North,
With squib-crack lightning, empty hogshead thundring,
To maze the world with terror & with wondring,
I boldly bade you foole it at the Court,
There's no place else so fit for your resort.
But though I bid you foole it, you may chuse,
Though I command, yet Sir. you may refuse;
For why, I thinke it more then foolish pitty,
So great a iemme as you, should grace the citty,
Whilst I would foole it on the liquid Thames,
Still praying for the Maiesty of Iames.
Good Sir, if this you take in such disgrace,
To giue you satisfaction, take my place,
And foole it on the Thames, whilst I at Court
Will try, if I, like you, can make some sport:
Or rather then for fooleship we will brawle,
You shall be foole in Court, on Thames and all.
Thus what to you I writ, loe here's the totall,
And you with angry spleen haue deign'd to note all;
And vow from hell to hale sterne Nemesis,
To whip me from the bounds of Thamesis:
Yet when I ope your paper murd'ring booke,
I see what paines the wisest wits haue tooke,
To giue you titles supernodicall,
In orders orderlesse methodicall:
There doe I see how euery one doth striue
In spight of Death, to make thee still suruiue.
No garded gowne-man dead, nor yet aliue,
But they make thee their great superlatiue.
In the beginning Alphabeticall,
With figures, tropes, and words patheticall,
They all successiuely from A to N,
Describe thee for the onely man of Men.

The frontispice of Master Coriats Booke very learnedly descanted vpon, by Master Laurence Whitakers, and Master Beniamin Ionson.

Thy Shipping, and thy Haddocks friendly feeding,
Thy Carting in thy Trauels great proceeding:
Thy riding Stirroplesse, thy iadish courser,
Thy Ambling o'r the Alpes; and which is worser,
After the Purgatory of thy Legges,
Thy Puncke bepelts thy pate with rotten egges.
When thou, braue man, assault'st to boord a Pinace,
As fits thy state, she welcomes thee to Venice.
Thy running from the mis-beleeuing Iew,
Because thou thought'st the Iew sought more then due;
For why, the Iew with superstition blind,
Would haue thee leaue what most thou lou'st, behind.
How with a rusticke Boore thou mad'st a fray,
And manfully broughtst all the blowes away.
The Turkish Emp'rour, or the Persian Sophy,
Can hardly match thy monumentall Trophy.
Thy ancient Ierkin, and thy aged sloppes,
From whose warme confines thy retainers drops.
I stand in feare to doe thy greatnesse wrong,
For 'tis suppos'd thou wast a thousand strong;
Who all deriu'd from thee their happy breeding,
And from thy bounty had their clothes & feeding.
Thy lasting shooes, thy stockings, and thy garters,
To thy great fame are drawn and hangd in quarters.
Thy Hat most fitly beautifies thy crest,
Thy wits great couer, couers all the rest.
The letter K doth shew the brauest sight:
But wherefore K? I'm sure thou art no Knight:
Why might not L, nor M, nor N, or O,
As well as knauish K, thy picture show?
But saucie K, I see will haue a place,
When all the Crosse-row shall endure disgrace.
Who at the letter K doth truly seeke,
Shall see thee hemm'd with Latine & with Greeke:
Whereas thy name, thy age, and Odcombs towne,
Are workemanly ingrau'd to thy renowne.
Beleaguerd round with three such female shapes,
Whose features would enforce the gods to rapes,
France, Germany, and smug-fac'd Italy,
Attend thee in a kind triplicity.
France giues thee clusters of the fruitfull vine,
And Germany (layes out) t'adorne thy shrine:
And Italie doth wittily inuite thee,
And prittily (she sayes) she will delight thee.
But yet thy entertainement was but bitter,
At Bergamo with horses in their litter:
Whose iadish kindnesse in thy stomacke stickes,
Who for thy welcome flung thee coltish kickes.
Thy begging from the high-way Purse-takers,
Describes thee for a learned wiseakers.
Lo thus thy single worth is praised double,
For rare inuention neuer counts it trouble,
With rimelesse reasons, and with Reasons verse,
Thy great Odcombian glory to rehearse.
But yet, whilst they in pleasures lap doe lull thee,
Amidst thy praise egregiously they gull thee:
Th'art made Tom Table-talke, mongst gulls and gallants,
Thy book, and thee, & such esteemed tallants,
When they are tired with thy trauels treading,
Then hauing nought to do, they fall to reading.
Thy wits false-galloping perambulation,
Which ease the Readers more then a purgation.
But to proceed, I'l recapitulate
The praise that doth thy worth accommodate.
Thy Character in learn'd admired Prose,
The perfect inside of thy humour showes:
Attended with thy copious names Acrosticke,
To shew thee wisest being most fantasticke.

All these Noblemen and Gentlemen that are named in this following book, did write merry commendatory verses, which were called the Odcombian banquet, and were inserted in Mr Coriats booke, intituled, Coriats Crudities: Vpon which verses, I haue seuerally and particularly paraphrased.

Next which, in doggrell rime is writ, I wot,
Thy name, thy birth, and place where thou wast got:
Thy education, manners, and thy learning,
Thy going outward, and thy home returning.
Yet there I finde, the Writer hath tane leaue,
Midst words that seeme thy fame aloft to heaue,
That for no little foole he doth account thee,
But with the greatest vp aloft doth mount thee.
Th'art lik'ned to a Ducke, a Drake, a Beare,
A iadish Gelding that was made to beare:
An Owle that sings, no wit, to whit, to who,
That nothing well can sing, nor say, nor doe.

Incipit Henricus Neuill de Aberguenie.

Then follows next, a friend that faine would knight thee,
But that he fears he should do more then right thee:
Yet whē his verses praise on cock-horse heues thee,
He found thee Thomas, & Thom as he leaues thee.

Iohannes Harrington de Bathe.

The Goose that guarded Rome with sensles gagling,
Is here implor'd t'assist the Ganders stragling:
A pen made of her quill would lift thee soone,
As high as is the thorn-bush in the Moone.

Incipit Ludouicus Lewknor.

Fooles past and present and to come, they say,
To thee in generall must all giue way:
Apuleius asse, nor Mida's lolling eares,
No fellowship with thee (braue Coriat) beares,
For 'tis concluded 'mongst the wizards all,
To make thee Master of Gul-finches hall.

Incipit Henricus Goodyer.

Old Odcombs odnesse makes not thee vneuen,
Nor carelesly set all at six and seuen.
Thy person's odde, vnparaleld, vnmatchd,
But yet thy Action's to the person patch'd.
Thy body and thy mind are twins in sadnesse,
Which makes thee euen in the midst of odnesse.
What-e'r thou odly dost, is eu'nly meant,
In Idiotisme thou art eu'n an Innocent.
Thy booke and thee are shap'd so like each other,
That if I looke on t'one, I see the tother,
Th'art light, th'art heauy, merry midst thy sadnesse
And still art wisest midst of all thy madnesse.
So odly euen thy feet thy iourney trod,
That in conclusion thou art euenly odde.

Incipit o Ihannes Paiton Iunior.

Thou saw'st so many cities, townes, and garisons,
That Cæsar must not make with thee comparisons:
Great Iulius Commentaries lies and rots,
As good for nothing but stoppe mustard pots.
For Coriats booke is onely in request,
All other volumes now may lye and rest.
Blind Homer in his writings tooke great paines,
Yet he and thee doe differ many graines:
For in my minde I hold it most vnfit,
To liken Homers verses to thy Writ.

Incipit Henricus Poole.

Next followes one, whose lines aloft doe raise
Don Coriat, chiefe Diego of our daies.
To praise thy booke, or thee, he knowes not whether,
It makes him study to praise both, or neither.
At last, he learnedly lets flie at large,
Compares thy booke vnto a Westerne Barge;
And saies, 'tis pitty thy all worthlesse worke,
In darke obscurity at home should lurke;
And then thy blunted courage to encourage,
Couragiously he counsels thee to forrage
'Mongst forraine Regions, and t'obserue their state,
That to thy Country-men thou might'st relate
At thy returne, their manners, liues, and law,
Belcht from the tumbrell of thy gorged maw.

Incipit Robertus Philips.

This worthy man thy fame on high doth heaue,
Yet Mounsieur Leg-stretcher, pray giue me leaue.
He saies that men doe much mistake thy age,
That thinke thou art not past the making sage.
Tis hard to make a foole of one that's wise;
For wit doth pitty folly, not despise:
But for to make a wise man of a foole,
To such a Clarke we both may goe to schoole.
Yet much I feare, to learne it is too late,
Our youthfull age, with wit is out of date.
He sayes, If any one a foole dares call thee,
Let not his thundring big-mouth'd words apall thee;
But in thine owne defence draw out thy toole,
Thy Booke, he means, which will his courage coole.
For why, thy Booke shall like a brazen shield
Defend thy cause, and thee the glory yeeld.
An asse I'm sure, could ne'r obserue so much,
Because an asses businesse is not such.
Yet if an asse could write as well as run,
He then perhaps, might doe as thou hast gone.
But tis impossible a simple creature
Should doe such things (like thee) aboue his nature.
Thou Aiax of the frothie Whitson Ale,
Let Æolus breathe, with many a friendly gale,
Fill full thy sailes, that after-times may know,
What thou to these our times dost friendly show:
That as of thee the like was neuer heard,
They crowne thee with a Marrot, or a Mard.

Incipit Dudleius Digges.

Here's one affirmes thy booke is onely thine,
How basely thou didst steale nor yet purloyne,
But from the labour of thy legges and braine,
This heire of thine did life and soule obtaine.
Thou art no cuckold, men may iustly gather:
Because the childe is made so like the father,
In nat'rall fashion, and in nat'rall wit:
Despight of Art, 'tis Nat'rall euery whit.

Incipit Rowlandus Cotton.

Columbus, Magelan, nor dreadfull Drake,
These three, like thee, did neuer iourny take.
Thou vntir'd trauelling admired iemme,
No man that's wise will liken thee to them.
The Calfe, thy booke, may call thee sire and dam,
Thy body is the Dad, thy minde the Mam.
Thy toylesome carkasse got this child of worth,
Which thy elaborate wit produced forth.
Now Ioues sweet benison befall the Barne,
How quickly it the fathers wit could learne!
So thou nor male nor female art by right,
But both in one, a true Hermaphrodite.
That man may well be call'd an idle mome,
That mocks the Cocke because he weares a combe:
A man to better vse may put his tongue,
Then flowt an Asse because his eares be long.
To thee alone in Tropes sophisticall,
These lines are writ in speeches mysticall.
The Moones own man that bears the bush of thorn,
May rue the time, that e'r thy selfe wast borne;
Thou hast beene, whereas he hath neuer beene,
And seene more sights then Luna's man hath seene:
Cast lots with him, for why, I thinke it fit,
Thou hadst his bush to shrowd thy nat'rall wit.
Tis pitty Calculations of thy birth,
Should be diuulg'd about this massie earth;
For out of it each foole would matter pike,
By Obseruation to beget thy like.

Incipit Robertus Yaxley.

Now Mounsieur Coriat, enuy not the Sculler,
Here's one would haue thy coat of many a culler,
And as befits thy person, he thinks best,
Thou had'st a cap and Cocks-combe for thy crest.
And 'cause a traueller may boldly lye,
A whetstone Embleme-wise must hang thereby.
And at the last he ends in pleasant sort,
And saies, Thy booke and thee, were made for sport.

Incipit Iohannes Strangwaies.

This Gentleman thy trauels doth aduance,
Aboue Kemps Norwich anticke Morris-dance:
And hauing grac'd thy fame with praises meet,
Talkes of thy shooes, and of thy galled feet,
And how thou thought'st the Iewes were too too cruel,
And ranst away from them, to saue thy iewel.
Thy heeles there help'd thee nimbly in thy flight,
Since which, thy hands haue done much more to wright.

Incipit Gulielmus Clauel.

Here's one whose Muse was coniur'd from her sleep
And being rapt with admiration deepe,
Thy booke he titles Gogmogog the huge,
Thy shield of safety, and thy wits refuge.

Iohannes Scorie.

Here's one that mounts thy fame beneath the sky,
And makes thee famous for Cosmography.
He saies, (but sure he either iests or flouts)
Thou drew'st a Map, when first thou pist thy clouts.
And how it was allotted thee by fate,
As soone as thou wast borne, to talke and prate.
For as a candles stuft with cotton weeke,
So thou art cramm'd vp to the brim with Greeke.
To Asia and to Affricke, prethee goe,
Let them like Europe thy rare vertues know,
And make thy Booke thy Buckler 'gainst all euill,
Whose grim aspect will terrifie the diuell.

Iohannes Donne.

Another here thy Booke doth much commend,
That none can studie it to any end.
Without or head, or foot, or top or taile;
Yet like a sauage monster dares assaile
The front of sadnesse, who with anticke grinning,
Applauds thee without ending or beginning.
Great Lunaticke, I thinke thou'lt ne'r be full,
Vntill the world cannot containe thy skull:
And like a foot-ball cram the vaulty skies,
Because, earth, aire, nor sea cannot suffice
The greatnesse of thy Fame, thy booke and thee,
All three in one, and one compact of three.
Yet here's a Prophecie concernes thee much,
Which doth thy booke and thee too neerely tutch;
Both gulls, and gallants, thy poore brat bereaues,
And from thy booke, shall rend both lims & leaues,
To wrap vp pepper, ginger, cloues and mace,
And drie Tobacco in each skuruie place:
To fold vp drugs, and pilles, for Physicks vse,
And serue for each Mechanicall abuse.
But I not minding with thy state to flatter,
Thinke 'twill be vs'd in many a priuie matter.
Thou o'r thy wit dost keepe such carefull watch,
That from thee one can hardly any catch:
And sooth to say, his conscience is but little,
Which in his wants would seeke to rob the Spittle.
Thy wits exchequer hath bin ouer-kinde,
That (much I feare) there's little left behinde.
But thou (braue man) bidst freely farewell it,
We'll raise Fifteenes, and Subsidies of wit
Shall fill thy seruiceable pate againe,
Whose pōdrous waight shal tire thy bearing brain.
Then feare not, man, but spend it whilst thou hast it,
To doe thy Countrey seruice 'tis not wasted.
This Author saies, thy book o'r-throwes him quite,
And therefore bids both it and thee good night,
The greatnesse of it puts him in such feares,
That he'll reade neither all, nor none, he sweares.

Richardus Martin.

This friend of thine, thy wisedome cannot mocke,
Yet he intitles thee an Od comb'd cocke:
'Thad bin all one, if at thy comming home,
He had but plac'd the cocke before the combe.
To make thy name more learnedly appeare,
He calls thee here an Od comb'd Chanticleere.

I know not who this should bee, but it is the next English to Mr Laurence Whitakers Out-landish.

Now here's another like a true Attourney,
Pleades very wisely, and applauds thy iourney:
And saies, thy trauels thou didst so decipher,
As well the world may see thou art no cipher.
And how thy booke so liuely out doth show thee,
That whosoe'r doth see't, must truly know thee.

Hugo Holland.

This man doth praise thy totterd ragged shirt,
Thy shooes and shanks at all he hath a flirt:
And like a patient bearing Asse, he saies,
Thou bear'st thy load through faire & foulest waies.
And for in carriage thou didst proue so able,
At night thou laist with Iades within a stable.
Thou wast not onely in thy pace an asse,
But thou all other asses didst surpasse.
All beasts in knowledge were to thee but weake.
For thou the tongue of Balaams asse didst speake.
But much I feare, thy booke in print will staine,
Because thou art not di'd a (------) in graine.

The Preamble to the Paralel, and the Epilogue.

Robertus Riccomontanus.

A large relation this thy friend did write,
Describing thee a monstrous man of might:
And bids thee venter such another taske,
And at thy backe returne hee'll haue a caske,
Much bigger then the Heidelbergian bumbard,
To keepe thy works, that neuer can be numberd.

Christopherus Brooke Eboracensis.

This Gentleman in some vnmeasur'd measure,
Compares thee vnto Homer and to Cæsar.
Old Homers Iliads are but idle tales,
Waigh'd with thy works, thy booke will turne the cales.
And like great Cæsar he doth thee commend,
For thou, like him, hast all thy trauels penn'd,
But yet, me thinks he playes the merry foxe,
And in thy praises writes a Paradoxe.

Iohannes Hoskins, Cabalisticall, or Horse verse.

Pricksong.

Iohannes Pawlet, de George Henton.

Now here's another in thy praises ran,
And would intitle thee the great god Pan.
No warming-pan thou art I plainely see,
No fire-pan, nor no frying-pan canst thou be.
Thou art no creame-pan neither, worthy man,
Although thy wits lie in thy heads braine-pan.

Lionel Cranfield.

This Gentleman thy wondrous trauels rips,
And nothing that may honour thee, he skips.
Thy yron memory thy booke did write,
I prethee keepe a wench to keepe it bright;
For cankerd rust, I know will yron fret,
And make thee wit and memory forget.
Lest rust therefore, thy memory should deuoure,
I'd haue thee hire a Tinker it to scowre.

Iohannes Sutclin.

Now here's a friend doth to thy fame confesse,
Thy wit were greater if thy worke were lesse.
He from thy labour treats thee to giue o're,
And then thy ease and wit will be much more.
Lo thus thy small wit, and thy labour great,
He summons to a peaceable retreat.

Inigo Iones.

What liuing wight can in thy praise be dum,
Thou crowing Cock, that didst from Odcom come.
This Gentleman amongst the rest doth flocke,
To sing thy fame, thou famous Odcomb'd cocke.
And learnedly, to doe thee greater grace,
Relates how thou canst scrue thy veriuyce face.
He wishes him that scornes thy booke to read,
If at the Sessions house he chance to plead,
That he may want his booke, although he craue;
But yet, thy booke will sooner hang then saue.
So many gallowses are in thy booke,
Which none can read without a hanging looke.

Georgius Siddenham.

Now here's a Substantiue stands by himselfe,
And makes thee famous for an anticke elfe:
But yet, me thinkes, he giues thee but a frumpe,
In telling how thou kist a wenches rumpe:
To spoile her ruffe, I thinke thou stood'st in feare,
That was the cause that made thee kisse her there.

Robertus Halswell.

Thy praise and worth this man accounts not small,
But 'thad bin greater, writing not at all:
Thy booke he calls Dame Admirations brother,
I thinke the world vnworthy such another.
Thy booke can make men merry that are sad,
But such another sure will make men mad.

Iohannes Gifford.

This friend amongst the rest, takes little paine,
To laud the issue of thy teeming braine:
And to applaud thee with his best endeauor,
He begs his wits to helpe him now or neuer.
He bids graue Munster reuerence thy renowne,
And lay his pen aside, and combe thy crowne.
He praises thee, as though he meant to split all:
And saies, thou art all wit (but yet no witall)
Except thy head, which like a skonce or fort,
Is barracado'd strong, lest wits resort,
Within thy braines should rayse an insurrection,
And so captiue thy head to wits subiection.

Robertus Corbet.

The luggage of thy wit, thy Booke he tearmes,
The bagge and baggage of thy legs and armes,
That neuer can be vnderstood by none,
But onely such as are like thee alone.

Iohannes Donnes.

This Gentleman commends thy Trauels much,
Because like thee, was neuer any such.
Decembers thunder, nor hot Iulies snow,
Are nothing like the wonders thou dost show.

Iohannes Chapman.

Here's one in kindnesse learnedly compacts,
Thy naturall iests, and thy all naturall acts,
And craues the Reader would some pity take,
To buy thy booke, euen for his owne deare sake.
For of thy trauels, and thy great designes,
There's little matter writ in many lines.
Thou in much writing tak'st such grear delight,
That if men read, thou car'st not what thou write.
This man could well afford to praise thee more,
But that hee's loth to haue thee on his score:
For he no longer will thy praise pursue,
Lest he should pay thee more then is his due.

Iohannes Owen.

This Author (to thy fame) in friendship saies,
How ancient Writers pend the Asses praise:
And wishes some of them aliue agen,
That they alone might thy high praises pen.

Petrus Alley.

Now here's a friend that lowd thy glory rings,
With Cannons, Sakers, Culuerings, and Slings,
Guns, drums, and phifes, and the shrill clang'rous trūpet
Applauds thy courting the Venetian strūpet

Samuel Page.

This Gentleman accounts it no great wrong,
Amidst thy praise, to say thy eares be long:
His meaning my construction much surpasses,
I wot not what he meanes, except an (------.)

Thomas Momford.

Here's a strange riddle puts me much in doubt,
Thy head's within thy wit, thy wit's without:
'Twere good some friend of thine would take the paines
To put thy wit i'the inside of thy braines.
For pitty doe not turne it out of dore,
Thy head will hold it, if'twere ten times more.

Thomas Bastard.

This Gentleman aduiseth thee take heed,
Lest on thy praise too greedily thou feed:
But though, too much, a surfet breed he saies,
Yet thou shalt surfet, but not die of praise.

Guilielmus Baker.

Here's one by no meanes at thy fame can winke,
And saies, how most men say thou pissest inke:
If it be true, I'de giue my guilded raper,
That to thy inke thou couldst sir-reuerence paper:
Thy gaines would be much more, thy charges lesse,
When any workes of thine come to the Presse.
'Twere good thy eares were par'd from off thy head,
'Twould stand Cosmographers in wondrous stead,
To make a Globe to serue this massie earth,
To be a mappe of laughter, and of mirth.
All new-found sustian phrases thou do'st sup,
And 'gainst a dearth of words, dost hoard them vp.
Yet where thou com'st, thou spendst thy prating pelfe,
Thogh no man vnderstand thee, nor thy selfe.
Thou art in a iewell to be hang'd most fit,
In eares, whose heads are nothing, but all wit.
And thy blown tongue wil make great ships to saile
From coast to coast, if winde and weather faile.

Againe.

Againe his Muse from sodaine sleep is waked,
And saies, this booke of thine is nat'rall naked.
Thou surely art a seruiceable waiter,
For when thou mad'st this booke, thou didst not loyter.
Yet much he doubts, if God or fiend will haue thee,
For if thou be'st sau'd, sure thy booke will saue thee.
If I to scape the gallowes needs must read,
I surely for another booke will plead:
The reason that incites me thereunto,
Thy booke to saue thee hath enough to doe.

This man hath a Greeke name.

This Gentleman thy praise doth briefely note,
Compares thy wit and senses to a Goate,
And well thy breeding he hath here exprest,
A Phœnix hatch'd from out the Wag-tailes nest.
But let them say, and call thee what they will,
Thou wast, and art, and wilt be Coriat still.

Thomas Farnabie, alias Baiurafe.

Here's one that like a carefull true Collector,
Tells, like a Bee, thou fill'st thy combe with Nectar:
Die when thou wilt, in honour of thy Name,
Ram-headed Bel-weathers shall ring thy fame.

Guilielmus Austin.

I thinke this Author doth equiuocate,
In writing of the word Assassinate.
The word so prittily he feemes to curtall,
That I imagine it is done for sportall.
But he perswades thee, trauell once agen,
And make the world to surfet with thy pen.

Glareanus Uadeanus.

Thou fatall impe to Glastenburie Abby,
The Prophecie includes thou art no baby,
That ouer Odcombs towne must one day ferrie,
As Whiting earst did ouer Glastenberie.
But yet 'tis pitty one of thy rare skill,
Should like the Monke be drownd vpon a hill.
If thou canst climbe to heauen in hempen string,
Thy fame for euer then my Muse shall sing:
But yet 'tis safer in a Trunke to hide,
Then such a dang'rous wincing iade to ride.

Iohannes Iackeson.

Thou that hast trauel'd much from coast to coast,
Come eat this Egge, that is nor rawe nor rost:
For like a friend, this man hath plaid the cooke,
And potch'd this Ginnie Egge into thy booke.

Michael Draiton.

Now here's another followes with a messe,
In haste, before thy Booke comes to the Presse.
The shortnesse of the time, is all his fault:
But now he's come, and brings thee spoons & salt.
He saies that thou hast taught the right behauior,
How with great men we all may liue in fauor.
He bids thee liue, and with their loues to ioyne,
Whose worth and vertues are most like to thine.

Nicholas Smith.

This Author liuely hath thy fame exprest,
But yet his lines are different from the rest:
For all but he that doe thy praises pen,
Say thou art farre vnlike to other men.
But this man to thy honour doth relate,
How many Courtiers thee doe imitate:
And how for feare thou should'st be stolne away,
They make themselues as like thee as they may.
For if they lose thee by false theft, or slaughter,
The Court (I feare) will weep for want of laughter.
Thy greatnes here the pore-blind world may see,
He saies (not I) thy peeres haue iudged thee:
Stand to their censures then, make no deniall,
For surely thou hast had a noble triall.

Laurentius Ensley.

Here's one commends thy booke, and bodies paine,
And counsels thee to trauell once againe;
Whereas the treasure of thy wit and body,
Shall tire each lumpish asse, and dronish noddie.
A horse that beares thy corpes, more ease shall find,
Then men can haue in bearing of thy minde:
For in thy minde is many a paire of gallowes,
Waigh's more then thee, or twentie of thy fellowes.
Was nothing in thy iourney, small or mickle,
But in thy minde thou barrell'dst it in pickle:
So that if men to see thy minde were able,
There's more confusion then was ere at Babel.
For there's confusion both of tongues and towers,
Of loftie steeples, and of lowly bowers.
Of Iibbets, racks, and round tormenting wheeles,
Of Haddockes, Paddockes, and of slipp'rie Eeles:
Of wit, of sense, of reason, death, and life,
Of loue, of hate, of concord, and of strife.
The seuen deadly sinnes, and liberall Arts,
Doe in thy minde discord and haue tane parts.
It is a doubt which side the conquest winnes,
Either the liberall Arts, or deadly sinnes.
Not fourtie Elephants can beare the loade,
Of pondrous things, that haue in thee abode.
Thy minde waighs more then I can write or speak,
Which heauie burden Atlas backe would breake.

Iohannes Dauis.

This Gentleman thy trauels doth relate,
Applauding much the hardnesse of thy pate:
I thinke thy head's as hard as steele, or rockes,
How could thy cox-comb else endure such knocks?
The brauest Smithes of Britaine haue tane paines,
To beat vpon the anuill of thy braines.
But let them beat, thou canst abide the blowes,
Thou countst thē fauors which thy friends bestows,
One with a cocks-combe hits thee o'r the comb,
Another with an Asses eares strikes home:
Another with a fooles coat, and a cap,
As hard as he can driue, giues thee a clap:
But let them strike with what they please to strike,
Thy hardened head will not their strokes dislike.
The blows the Boore did giue thee in the vineyard,
Thou put'st them vp, & neuer drew'st thy whiniard:
Thou took'st a beating from a boorish foe-man,
I hope that thou wilt scorne a knocke from no man.

Richardus Badley.

Here's one whose lines cōmend thee with the most,
And saies, how that a foole at Pentecost,
(At Whitsontide he meanes) did ouerthrow thee,
And at thy owne blunt weapon ouer-crow thee.
If it be true, me thinkes 'tis wondrous strange,
That thou so many countries o'r should'st range:
And hast the tongues of Latine and of Greeke,
Yet 'gainst a foole should'st haue thy wits to seeke.
I at the Sessions house the like haue seene,
When malefactors at the bar haue beene,
Being well-read Schollers, for their booke would plead,
Yet for their liues haue had no power to read.
So thou great Polypragmon wast more graueld
With this wise foole, thē else-wher as thou traueld.

Henricus Peacham.

Of all rare sights, in city, court, or towne,
This Author saies, thou brauely put'st them downe;
The horrid darke eclipse of Sunne or Moone,
The Lyon, Elephant, or the Baboone:
The huge Whale-bone, that's hang'd vp at Whitehall,
The sight of thee puts downe the diuell and all.
Tricks, Iigges, and motions, are but idle toyes,
The sight of thee their glories all destroyes.
The sweetnesse of thy Phisnomy is such,
That many to behold it would giue much.
But they are blind, and would giue more to see,
And therefore would giue much to looke on thee.

The Vtopian Tongue.

Thoytom Asse Coria Tushrump codsheadirustie,
Mungrellimo whish whap ragge dicete tottrie,
Mangelusquem verminets nipsem barely bittimsore
Culliandolt trauellerebumque, graiphone trutchmore.
Pusse per mew (Odcomb) gul abelgik foppery shig shag
Cock a peps Comb sottishamp, Idioshte momulus tag rag.

Iacobus Field.

This Author 'mongst the rest in kindnesse comes
To grace thy trauels with a world of Toms:
Tom Thumbe, Tom foole, Tom piper, and Tom-asse,
Thou Tom of Toms dost all these Toms surpasse.
Tom tell-troth is a foolish gull to thee,
There's no comparisons twixt thee and hee.
If tell-troth Tom were any of thy kin,
I thinke thy Booke not halfe so big had bin.

Clareanus Videanus.

Not last, nor least, but neere thy praises end,
This worthy man thy worthlesse works commend:
No scuruy idle name he will thee call,
And therefore he will call thee none, but all.
If I on euery Epithete should write,
Thy friends bestow on thee, thou wandring wight,
No Reader then durst on my writings looke,
They would so far out-swell thy boystrous booke.
But shortest writ, the greatest wit affoords,
And greatest wit, consists in fewest words.
Thus Monsieur Coriat, at your kind request,
My recantation here I haue exprest,
And in my Commentaries haue bin bold
To write of all that haue your fame inrol'd,
I meane of such, my wit can vnderstand,
That speake the language of the Britaine land.
But for the Latine, French, the Greeke, or Spanish,
Italian, or the Welsh, from them I vanish.
I on these tongues by no meanes can comment,
For they are out of my dull Element.
Consider with your selfe, good Sir, I pray,
Who hath bin bolder with you, I, or they?
If I, I vow to make you satisfaction,
Either in words, or pen, or manly action:
I haue bin bold to descant on each iest,
Yet from the Text I nothing wrong did wrest:
My lines may be compared to the Thames,
Whose gliding current, and whose glassie streames,
On which if men doe looke, as in a glasse,
They may perceiue an asse to be an asse,
An owle an owle, a man to be a man:
And thou, thou famous great Odcombian,
Shalt see thy selfe descypherd out so plaine,
Thou shalt haue cause to thanke me for my paine.
But holla, holla, whither runnes my pen?
I yet haue descanted what other men
Haue wrote before: but now I thinke it fit
To adde additions of mine owne to it.
I yet haue champ'd what better writers chaw'd,
And now my Muse incites me to applaud
Thy worth, thy fortune, and thy high desart,
That all the world may take thee Asse thou art.
And now to sing thy glory I begin,
Thy worthy welcome vnto Bossoms Inne.

Mr Coriats entertainement at Bossoms Inne.

Iewes-trumps & Bag-pipes, musick high and low,
Stretch to the height your merry squeking notes
And all you Cockney cocks clap wings and crow,
Here comes an Odcomb cocke will eat no oates.
Pipes, tabers, fiddles, trebble, and the base,
Blow, sound, and scrape, fill all the ayre with mirth:
Blind harpers all your instruments vncase,
And welcome home the wonder of the earth:
Great Coriat, mirrour of the foure-fold world,
The fountaine whence Alacrity doth flow,
On whom rich Nature nat'rall gifts hath hurld,
Whom all admire, from Palace to the Plow:
The onely Aristarck-asse of this age,
The maine Exchequer of all mad-cap glee;
For Fortune thrust him on this earthly stage,
That he the onely Thing of Things should be.
He that so many galling steps hath trac'd,
That in so many countries earst hath bin,
And to his euiternall fame is grac'd,
To be well welcom'd vnto Bossoms Inne.
Vnto which place, whilst Christmas time doth last
If any once in progresse chance to come,
They of my Lords great bounty needs must taste,
Which oftentimes doth proue a pondrous summe.
For why, my lusty liberall minded Lord
Is very friendly to all passengers,
And from his bounty freely doth afford
Both pounds, and purses to all messengers.
And thither now is Monsieur Odcombe come,
Who on his owne backe-side receiud his pay;
Not like the entertainement of Iacke Drum,
Who was best welcome when he went his way.
But he not taking my Lords coyne for current,
Against his Lordship and his followers raues,
Like to a cruell all-deuouring torrent,
These words he vtterd stuff'd with thūdring braues:
Base vassals of the blacke infernall den,
Vntutor'd peasants to the fiends of hell,
Damn'd Incubusses in the shapes of men,
Whose mind's the sinke where impious dealings dwell;
Curst age, when buzzards, owles, and blinded bats,
Against the princely Eagle rise in swarmes,
When weazels, polecats, hungry rau'ning rats,
Against the Lyon raise rebellious armes,
When as the offall of the vilest earth,
Raile roguishly 'gainst their superiour powers,
And seeme to contradict them in their mirth,
And blast with stinking breath their pleasāt houres,
When base mechanicke, muddy-minded slaues,
Whose choysest food is garlicke and greene cheese,
The cursed off-spring of hells horrid caues,
Rude rugged rascals, clad in pelt and freeze.
And such are you you damn'd Tartarian whelps,
Vnmanner'd mungrels, sonnes of Cerberus,
Whom Pluto keepes for speedy hellish helps,
T'increase the monarchie of Erebus.
But now my Muse with wrinkled laughter fild,
Is like to burst: O hold my sides, I pray,
For straight my Lord by his command'ment wild,
('Cause Corsat did his Lordship disobay)
That in the Basket presently they mount him,
And let him see his ancient royall tower:
For he hath maz'd them all, that they account him
To be some mighty man, of forcelesse power:
And now the matter plainer to disclose,
A little while I'll turne my verse to prose.

2. Oration.