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 |  |
82
A LITTLE REMEMBRANCE OF HIS VARIETY OF TONGVES, AND Politicke forme of Trauell.
A very Babel of confused Tongues,Vnto thy little Microcosme belongs,
That to what place soeuer thou doest walke,
Thou wilt lose nothing through the want of talke.
For thou canst kisse thy hand, and make a legge,
And wisely canst in any language begge:
And sure to beg 'tis policy (I note)
It sometimes saues the cutting of thy throat:
For the worst thiefe that euer liu'd by stealth,
Will neuer kill a begger for his wealth.
But who is't but thy wisedome doth admire,
That doth vnto such high conceits aspire?
Thou tak'st the bounty of each bounteous giuer,
And drink'st the liquor of the running riuer:
Each Kitchin where thou com'st, thou hast a Cook,
Thou neuer runst on score vnto the Brooke;
For if thou didst, the Brook and thou wouldst gree,
Thou runst from it, and it doth run from thee.
In thy returne from Agra and Assmere,
By thy relation following doth appeare,
That thou dost purpose learnedly to fling
A rare Oration to the Persian King.
Then let the idle world prate this, and that,
The Persian King will giue thee (God knows what.)
And furthermore to me it wondrous strange is,
How thou dost meane to see the Riuer Ganges,
With Tigris, Euphrates, and Nimrods Babel,
And the vnhappy place where Cain slew Abel.
That if thou wert in Hebrew circumcised,
The Rabbyes all were wondrous ill aduised;
Nay more, they were all Coxcombs, all stark mad,
To thinke thou wert of any Tribe but Gad.
Sure, in thy youth thou at'st much running fare,
As Trotters, Neates-feet, and the swift-foot Hare,
And so by inspiration fed, it bred
Two going feet to beare one running head.
Thou filst the Printers Presse with griefe & mourning,
Still gaping, and expecting thy returning:
All Pauls Church-yard is fild with melancholly,
Not for the want of bookes, or wit; but folly
It is for them, to greeue too much for thee,
For thou wilt come when thou thy time shalt see.
But yet at one thing much my Muse doth muse,
Thou dost so many commendations vse
Vnto thy mother, and to diuers friends,
Thou hast remembred many kind commends,
And till the last, thou didst forget thy Father,
I know not why, but this conceit I gather,
That as men sitting at a feast to eat,
Begin with Beefe, Porke, Mutton, and such meat,
And when their stomacks are a little cloyd,
This first course then the Voyder doth auoyd:
The anger of their hunger being past,
The Pheasant and the Partridge comes at last.
This (I imagine) in thy minde did fall,
To note thy Father last to close vp all.
First to thy Mother here thou dost commend,
And astly to thy Father thou dost send:
Shee may command in thee a Filiall awe,
But he is but thy Father by the Law.
To heare of thee, mirth euery heart doth cheere,
But we should laugh out-right to haue thee heere.
For who is it that knowes thee but would chuse,
Farther to haue thy presence then thy newes.
Thou shew'st how wel thou setst thy wits to work,
In tickling of a misbeleeuing Turke:
He call'd thee Giaur, but thou so well didst answer
(Being hot and fierie, like to crabbed Caucer)
That if he had a Turke of ten pence bin,
Thou toldst him plaine the errors he was in;
His Alkaron, his Moskyes are whim-whams,
False bug-beare bables, fables all that dams,
Slights of the Diuell, that bring perpetuall woe,
Thou wast not mealy mouth'd to tell him so,
And when thy talke with him thou didst giue ore,
As wise he parted as he was before:
His ignorance had not the power to see
Which way, or how to edifie by thee:
But with the Turke (thus much I build vpon)
If words could haue done good, it had beene done.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |