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 |
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
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.
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.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |