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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2. Oration.
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
2. Oration.
79
No sooner was this graue Oration ended,
Whereto my Lord, and all his traine attended,
Being strooken in an admirable maze,
That they like Ghosts on one another gaze:
Quoth one, This man doth coniure sure, I thinke,
No quoth another, He is much in drinke:
Nay quoth a third, I doubt he's raging mad,
Faith, quoth my Lord, he's a most dangerous lad:
For such strange English from his tongue doth slide,
As no man (but himselfe) can speake beside.
If those that with their damnable intent,
Intended to blowe vp the Parlament,
Had had but him, and halfe a dozen such,
In gun-powder 'twould sure haue sau'd thē much,
For why their tōgs with blown cōbustious words,
Had done more scath then gunpowder or swords.
But let him hang vntill his clam'rous tongue
Vntwist with smoother garbe this sawcie wrong.
Yet I imagine some strange secret worke,
Did in his hanging in the Basket lurke.
What greater fame could to his glorie rise,
Then with a rope to trauell t'ward the skies:
And there to doe his carkasse greatest grace,
Among the gods to giue him Momus place:
For Saturne, Iupiter, and Phaetons Dad,
Are all enamor'd on this louely lad.
Mars, Venus, and the tel-tale Mercurie,
Doe all desire Tom Coriats company.
And Luna, sure shee's quite besides her wits,
Still wauering, changing, with fantasticke fits:
T'is thought shee neuer will come to her selfe,
Till shee possesse this worthy worthlesse elfe.
For he's the man that Nature makes her casket,
To mount the skies in triumph in a basket.
But out alas my Muse, where hast thou bin?
I should haue kept my selfe at Bosomes Inne.
And see how I haue scal'd the spungie clowds.
But tis his worth my meditations crowds
To this extrauagant impertinence,
As being rauisht with his eminence.
But blame me not: for hee's the gigge of time,
Whō sharpest wits haue whipt with sportfull rime
And some would wear their sharp-edg'd Muses blūt,
If in his praise they longer time should hunt.
But here's my comfort, I am not alone,
That vnder this most pondrous burden groane.
There's some like me, haue in his laud bin bizzie:
But I haue made my pericranion dizzie,
To sing the worth of this all wordy squire,
Whom sea and land, and fish and flesh admire.
And now his contemplation prompts his tong,
To tune his voyce to a more milder song.
His tongue that brake the peace, must peace procure:
That (like Achilles launce) can wound and cure.
And once more, Reader, humbly I entreat,
That I in spowting Prose may now repeat
His Oratories smooth-fac'd Epilogue.
O for some Academicke Pedagogue
T'instruct my braine, and helpe my art-lesse quill,
To mount his fame past Gads, or Shooters hill.
Whereto my Lord, and all his traine attended,
Being strooken in an admirable maze,
That they like Ghosts on one another gaze:
Quoth one, This man doth coniure sure, I thinke,
No quoth another, He is much in drinke:
Nay quoth a third, I doubt he's raging mad,
Faith, quoth my Lord, he's a most dangerous lad:
For such strange English from his tongue doth slide,
As no man (but himselfe) can speake beside.
If those that with their damnable intent,
Intended to blowe vp the Parlament,
Had had but him, and halfe a dozen such,
In gun-powder 'twould sure haue sau'd thē much,
For why their tōgs with blown cōbustious words,
Had done more scath then gunpowder or swords.
But let him hang vntill his clam'rous tongue
Vntwist with smoother garbe this sawcie wrong.
Yet I imagine some strange secret worke,
Did in his hanging in the Basket lurke.
What greater fame could to his glorie rise,
Then with a rope to trauell t'ward the skies:
And there to doe his carkasse greatest grace,
Among the gods to giue him Momus place:
For Saturne, Iupiter, and Phaetons Dad,
Are all enamor'd on this louely lad.
Mars, Venus, and the tel-tale Mercurie,
Doe all desire Tom Coriats company.
And Luna, sure shee's quite besides her wits,
Still wauering, changing, with fantasticke fits:
T'is thought shee neuer will come to her selfe,
Till shee possesse this worthy worthlesse elfe.
For he's the man that Nature makes her casket,
To mount the skies in triumph in a basket.
But out alas my Muse, where hast thou bin?
I should haue kept my selfe at Bosomes Inne.
And see how I haue scal'd the spungie clowds.
But tis his worth my meditations crowds
To this extrauagant impertinence,
As being rauisht with his eminence.
But blame me not: for hee's the gigge of time,
Whō sharpest wits haue whipt with sportfull rime
And some would wear their sharp-edg'd Muses blūt,
If in his praise they longer time should hunt.
But here's my comfort, I am not alone,
That vnder this most pondrous burden groane.
There's some like me, haue in his laud bin bizzie:
But I haue made my pericranion dizzie,
To sing the worth of this all wordy squire,
Whom sea and land, and fish and flesh admire.
And now his contemplation prompts his tong,
To tune his voyce to a more milder song.
His tongue that brake the peace, must peace procure:
That (like Achilles launce) can wound and cure.
And once more, Reader, humbly I entreat,
That I in spowting Prose may now repeat
His Oratories smooth-fac'd Epilogue.
O for some Academicke Pedagogue
T'instruct my braine, and helpe my art-lesse quill,
To mount his fame past Gads, or Shooters hill.
80
Epilogue to Mr Coriat.
Thus to the Ocean of thy boundlesse fame,I consecrate these rude vnpolish'd lines,
To thee whose Muse can men and monsters tame,
Whose wit the vault of wisdome vndermines.
Whose poudered phrases with combustions flame,
Like Glo-wormes in the darkest darke doe shine.
To them in all Sir reuerence, I submit,
Thou mir'd admired Capcase, cramd with wit.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |