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