University of Virginia Library

I haue lookt ouer with my best Prospectiues,
And view'd the tenor of thy base Inuectiues:
But if thou knewst how slenderly I weigh them,
Thou wouldst not make such labor to display thē:
All that my Lyntia in thy vaine discernes,
Is Roguish Language, such as Newgate learnes.
I thinke thou hast beene tutor'd in the Stewes,
For thine's the perfect speech they onely vse:
Base Roguish Wishes, Cursing and Reuiling,
Tempestuous Raylings, and good names defiling.
Yet maugre Mallice Iohn, I pittie thee,
For all the paines thou hast bestow'd on mee;
And were my purse but of abilitie,
I'd recompence thy labours horriblie:
But since my meanes vnable is to right thee,
Marke how my Penne in kindnes shall requite thee.
I will bestow a sheet or two of Paper,
And sit the burning of a Tallow Taper,
To tell thee thou art monstrous insolent,
Although thy Verse is lame and impotent;
And at the highest, thou art but partaker
With Libell-spreaders, or some Ballad-maker.
But doe not thinke thou dealst with Coriat,
Whose bosome thou didst bolt a Story at;
Nor looke not for such batterie at my walls,
As 'gainst the Knight o'th Sun, or Archibals;
Expect not Captaine Ottooles vnderstanding:
No, no; against a Bulwarke thou art banding
Of better temper, and a nobler spirit,
Then euer thy base bosome could inherit.
'Gainst Cynthia, like a Wolfe, thou'lt bark & howle,
Whereby thou shewst thy iudgement dark & foule.
Thou grieu'st, my muse with her reflecting rayes
Hath quite eclipst a famous Scullers praise:
Thou wouldst haue Poesie in none to flourish
But in thy selfe; O thou art too too currish:
Banish this selfe-conceit; false shadie dreames
Hang in thy heart, and driue thee to extremes.
But why doe I presume to counsell thee,
That hat'st good counsell, as thou hatest me?
Wherefore I leaue thy brazen impudence,
To answer thy Reuenge with my Defence.

Defence.

How Rascall-like thou dealst with me at first;
Thou shewst from what antiquitie th'art nurst:
How darst thou of thy Satyre-musicke boast,
That now standst bound vnto the whipping post?
But I will spare thee, thou intemperate Asse,
Vntill in Bride-well thou shalt currant passe.
Thou sayst, I had better with the Deuill deale;
By which thou dost thy wickednesse reueale:
But I haue nought to doe with him, or thee;
If thou be his companion, God blesse me.
To crouch, or whyne, thou giu'st me no occasion;
But I must laugh at thy absurd perswasion;
Thou art that Lernean Snake, squeeze thine owne gall,
But 'tis too bad to make thee Inke withall.
Th'ast gone so long to Styx for mingled Inke,
That all thy verses in mens nosthrils stinke.
For pens, the Scritch-Owles feathers are too tough;
A Gooses wing for thee is good ynough.
Thou hast emblaz'd me Basest slaue of men;
That name I freely send thee backe agen,
Vntill the world hath better eyes to see,
Which is the basest lacke, my selfe, or thee.
Thou call'st me Rogue so artificiall,
That I must iudge thee for one naturall:
The iniurie proceeded from thy tongue,
And yet thou wouldst make me thy cloake for wrong.
But do'st thou thinke the matter is no more,
But hang my selfe? thy counsell I abhore:
And take thou heed of this inchanted spell,
Iohn Taylor ended like Achitophel.
What foolish Asse, like thee, would take in hand
To play a Play, that couldst not vnderstand,
What thine owne folly is, thou art so blind;
Onely to basenesse thou art well inclin'd.
Do'st thinke I had no businesse, but to wait
On thy detested Fopperies conceit?
Yet I protest, hadst thou but sent the Bill,
For me to answer, I'd haue shew'd my skill:
Which would haue beene so much to thy disgrace,
That thou againe durst ne'r haue shew'd thy face.
Canst thou imagine, that I went away,
For feare of thee, or thy contemned Play?
Know, foole, when on the Stage I purchas'd worth,
I scorn'd to send for thee to helpe me forth.
And put the case that I should challenge thee,
Thy rayling spirit could not answer mee:
For thou art nothing without three months studie;
I'd beat my braines out, if they were so muddie.
Fiue shillings I confesse I had of thee;
Which I protest my seruant had from mee,
For to repay thee: but since he did fayle,
Thou might'st haue sent to me; not write, and rayle
On him, that holds his honestie more deere
Then all the Thames reuenewes in a yeere.
But here thou driu'st me to a short demurre,
To know why thou shouldst call a Cristian, Curre:
Oh, I haue found it; to my griefe I see,
That Curres and Christians are alike to thee.
But was thy credit by my treason slaine?
Faith I know none thou hadst to lose or staine.
I wonder much at thy simplicitie,
That thou shouldst challenge me for sharking thee;
When of my troth I had rather giue thee gifts,
Then see thee driuen to such paltrie shifts.
Thou and thy Squire oft haue ferried mee,
More oft then I and mine haue rim'd to thee.
If euer I haue sung to nastie Whores,
Thou, or some Pander, like thee, kept the dores:
For I am sure, that for as little meanes,
As two pence, thou wilt carry knaues and queanes.
I know not what thou meanst by Doxie Dell,
It seemes with them thou art acquainted well.
For scrappes and broken beere it is so rare
For me to rime, that thou shalt haue my share:
For though much wealth I want to maintaine me,
I'll neuer trouble Whores, nor Rogues, nor thee.
Allow I am squint-eyde, yet with those eyes,
I can thy Baboones trickes anatomize.
But prethee, which of all the Deuils cramb'd
That word of iudgement in thee, Thou art damb'd?
I'd rather wish thee talke of thy saluation,
Lest hate should hurrie thee into damnation.
Hadst thou begun with Brothell, then transcended
Vnto a Tauerne, thou my state hadst mended:
But thou dost all thou canst to cut my throat,
And cheat me of the Tinker and his groat:
Thou hast so many voyages to hell,
That Nemesis will like thy visage well;
And for to make hels number one the fuller,
Charon will take thee for his vnder Sculler:
And frō those tossing torments which torment thee,
I'll find a shelter, though it discontent thee.
Why dost thou blame my tongue, 'cause it proclaims
My selfe a seruant to my Soueraigne Iames?
I would all hearts & tongues with mine would sing,
Their loyall duty to my Lord the King.
His Royall fauour makes thy enuy swell,
As by thy words all may discerne it well.
Thy base comparison I hate and curse,
Pray heauen thy seruice to him proue no worse:
For then my Rime shall tell thee this in Reason,
Shalt ne'r be hang'd for fellony nor treason.
Now for the rest, thou poore Beare-garden sport,
I scorne to tell thee how I liue in Court:
Yet for to certifie thee, thou shalt know it,
It hath pleasd the King to call me his Ryming Poet.
Although too farre vnworthy, I confesse,
To merit it, the Title I possesse:
Yet, without boasting, let me boldly say,
I'll ryme with any man that breaths this day,
Vpon a subiect in extempore,
Or else be blotted from all memorie,
For any wager dare ingaged be.
Then thinke what cause I had to run from thee?
Except it were, because I would not heare,
How thou absurdly didst abuse each eare.
But thou dost taske me with my sawcinesse,
That I my selfe a Poet dare professe:
Wouldst thou haue me rob Nature of her gifts;
Why, that were baser then thy basest shifts:
Yet my esteeme of course extempory,
Is but as seruile to sweet Poesie.
Why wouldst thou trouble Homer from his rest,
To view the slanders belcht from thy base brest.
Were Ouid liuing, hee would discommend thee:
Horace, in steed of wine, would water send thee:
And famous Uirgill, in his lofty stile,
At this thy rayling humor would but smile.
Last, all that haue deseru'd a Lawrell wreath,
Vnto thy Muse a paire of sculls bequeath.
Alas poore Spong, thou suckst vp nought but spight,
And dost me open wrong thy faults to right.
What coxcomb-foole would proffer such abuses,
As thou hast done to Poets, and the Muses?
But deare Talia in her ryming fit,
Sung, Thou wilt die a foole, for want of wit.
Thou saist thy iudgement can compose a verse;
What my opinion's of thee, I'll rehearse,
Thou art no better then a Poets Whelpe,
That fauning vp and downe seekes after helpe:
I could be like thy selfe, vnmannerly,
But that I scorne thy stile should tutor me.
No, burne thy selfe out, like a candle-snuffe,
'Tis vaine to make thee worse, th'art bad enuffe.
Thou taxest me, that I abroad doe vaunt,
What Lords & Knights to me their fauors graunt;
It also seemes that thou from mee would'st know,
What Countesses and Ladies count'nance shew.
I'll tell thee plainly; such doe entertaine mee,
That for thy rayling basenesse will disdaine thee.
Had they thy hungry chapps once foddered,
Thou wouldst not title them embrodered.
But, Syrra, though you meddle with your mates,
Thou shouldst learn manners to forbeare the states:
And not to descant vpon Court and King,
'Twere fitter thou shouldst of a Sculler sing.
Presumptuous foole, how dar'st thou be so bold,
To speake of Kings, whom men with feare behold.
You say, you know his royall Maiesty
Will not allow his Court to harbour me:
Nay more, your Scullership doth know right well,
That I no longer in his house shall dwell.
Is then his wisedome think'st thou such meane treasure,
That Water-men must know his royall pleasure?
Yet I confesse so farre his will they know,
When he directs them whither they shall goe.
It may bee thou wast put in office lately,
Which makes thee rogue me so, and rayle so stately.
But when thy head peepes through the pillory,
I doubt these termes thy eares must iustifie.
For thy base words are of such hard digestion,
They'l cause some stomack call thy name in questiō,
Thou hopst to see me whipt; stand fast blind Hodge,
For feare thou stumble into th'Porters Lodge:
Raue, rayle, doe what thou canst, I'l neuer cease,
To serue my soueraigne master King of peace.
VVatch till thy eyes fall out; VVrite, do thy worst;
I haue a Penne and Inkhorne is as curst,
To answere all thy Rayling, Satyrizing,
In three daies, what thou three months art deuising:
And when thy quarter-Cockatrice sees light,
In troth it is not worthy of mans sight.
But I am sorry that thy credit's tainted,
To make thee and thy Chaundler vnacquainted:
VVill he not score no more for Egges and Cheese,
Because he saw thy Hope vpon her knees?
Rather then thou shouldst lay that fault on me,
Come where I dwell, I'l passe my word for thee:
For Reputation thou canst haue no more,
Then in a Bakers debt, or Ale-wifes score:
And if thou be deni'd both Bread and Drinke,
Thy Writing and thy Rowing's like to shrinke.
Leaue these Inuectiues, trust vnto thy Scull,
For that's the way to fill thy belly full
Of Meat and Drinke; besides this Consolation,
Thou labor'st truly in thine owne Vocation.
Why shouldst thou stagger after Poesie,
That is attended on by Pouerty?
I wish thee as my friend, ne'r goe about it;
For, as I guesse, th'art poore ynough without it.
I see thou art so bare and desperate,
Thou wouldst turne Hangman to aduance thy state;
And hang vp me: but (Sculler) I'l o'r-match you,
And stand to see a Hempen halter catch you:
For the old prouerbe neuer sailed yet,
Who spreads nets for his friends, snares his owne feet:
But yet I wonder since thou hat'st my life,
Thou shouldst professe such kindnesse to my wife,
If thy hot loue without deceit be feruent,
My kitchin Maide shall take thee for her seruant:
For all the loue that from my wife proceeds,
Is scorning of thy person and thy deeds:
Thou calst them wittols that lead quiet liues,
But none but Rascals will abuse their wiues.
But now to the disasters of the day,
How thou miscarriedst with thy Hopefull play.
Of thy mishaps no long discourse I'll tell,
How thou amongst them mad'st a beastly smell.
Thou dost commend the Players for their action,
But they were all asham'd of thy distraction:
For them, as much as thine, my praise allow,
For none amongst them plaid the foole but thou:
Thou wouldst faine find a fault, yet knowst not where,
When in thy bosome it appeareth cleare.
Thy chiefest rayling and thy strongst euasion,
Is against me, yet thou art the occasion.
Another while thou blam'st the Audience,
When thou wast cause of their impatience:
The better sort said I was wise enuffe,
To keepe me out of that blacke whirle-wind puffe,
Which almost blew the hangings from the Stage;
Was e'r such folly knowne in any age?
Thou sayst, the Maundering Begger credit got,
For that, thou knowst I know a Poet wrot:
For all the rest, that was deuisde by thee,
Was nothing but a heape of Fopperie.
I heard, thou letst the Wine run tumbling downe
Thy rotten wind-pipe, like a drunken, Clowne:
But yet thy Lion drunke could not defend thee,
For 'twas thy Ape drunke made some men cōmend thee:
For that daies censure thou canst not escape,
Which sayes, That all thy actions plaid the Ape.
But thy Tobacco was such stinking stuffe,
That all the people cry'd, Enough, enough.
Thy third Act shew'd the humors of men frantick,
Wherin, most like an Asse, thou stoodst for Anticke:
I saw it not, whether it were good or bad;
But wise men iudge thee either foole, or mad.
Thy last Act shewes thy skill vpon the Seas,
To be so rare, it did them all displease:
And in conclusion, such a tempest rose,
That blew thee off, and made thy friends thy foes.
And wouldst thou load my back with all this blame?
Nay, as thou got'st the coyne, so take the shame:
And let me tell thee this, to calme thy rage,
I chaleng'd Kendall on the Fortune Stage;
And he did promise 'fore an Audience,
For to oppose me, note the accidence:
I set vp Bills, the people throng'd apace,
With full intention to disgrace, or grace;
The house was full, the trumpets twice had sounded;
And though he came not, I was not confounded,
But slept vpon the Stage, and told them this;
My aduerse would not come: not one did hisse;
But flung me Theames: I then extempore
Did blot his name from out their memorie,
And pleasd them all, in spight of one to braue me,
Witnesse the ringing Plaudits that they gaue me.
Was not this iust the ease 'twixt me and thee?
And yet thy eyes, thine owne faults cannot see.
I'l touch thee neerer: Hadst thou beene away,
As I was, and my selfe suppli'd the day,
I would haue rows'd my Muse incontinent,
With Mirths best quaint deuise, for their content;
And in extempore I would haue gain'd
The fauour of them all, which thee disdain'd.
But thou art hatcht from Saturnes frozen braine,
Poore drowsie groome of sleepy Morpheus traine:
If there be any sparke of Muse in thee,
It is the tayle-gut of Melpomenie,
Which doth instruct thee in thy filthy tearmes;
There's nothing else in thee my Penne affirmes.
Hadst thou done well, the credit had beene thine;
But doing ill, thoud'st haue the shame be mine.
The Money pleasd thy humor passing well;
But thy discredit made thy anger swell
Aboue the verge of Patience and thy Sayle,
Blowne full of Enuy, bursts it selfe to Rayle,
Not publikely, but in a priuate Hole
Kindle thy Malice at the Diuels coale:
But I with water of true Honesty
Will quench the raging heat of Villany.
How brauely thou canst brag it out, and swagger,
And talk of stabbes (God blesse vs) and thy dagger:
I would not see thy spightfull spit-Frog drawne,
'Twill serue thee better for an Ale-house pawne.
Thou scornst to foule thy fingers vpon men,
Because thou knowst they will shake hands agen:
But thou art excellent at these windy puffes,
And darst encounter boyes at fifticuffes;
But Sirrha, looke to your greene Wastcot well,
For feare the boyes doe teare it off peecemell.
All the kind fauour that I will implore,
Is, that thou wouldst threaten me no more:
And yet, now I remember, 'tis no wrong;
For Threatned folke (the Prouerb sayes) liue long:
But with thy Penne write, and reuenge thy spleene,
I'l haue an Answere that shall cut as keene.
But now base Slanderer, I must tearme thee so;
Why medlest thou with them thou dost not know:
Thus long I haue but spent my Inke in ieast,
But now I'l dart my anger at thy breast:
I would I had the humor of some Scold,
That I, like thee, my venome might vnfold.
Thou neuer knewst my birth, nor my begetting,
So well as I thy Rascall Play, and Cheating:
But whatsoe'r my birth or breeding bee,
Spider, I liue to tosse and torture thee,
Vse thee like Stock-fish, gill thee like a Sprat,
Duck thee i'th Towne-ditch, like a Water-Rat,
Make Iigges and Ballads of thy apish toyes,
For to be sung by thred-bare Fidlers boyes:
Yet to doe this, I shall but proue a babie,
Thou hast disgrac'd thy selfe as much as may be.
Thou Barrabas of all humanitie,
Base slanderer of Christianitie,
Know that I am a Christian, and am borne
Better then thy best Kindred, I'l be sworne:
How thy owne tongue thy breeding doth display,
By Pedlers French, and Canting, Curds and Whay;
And I'l approue it to thy foule disgrace,
Th'art sprung from basenesse; I, from Gentries race:
Which to make good, my Parents yet doe liue,
And each day at their Table, food doe giue
To better men then thou, mishapen slaue:
Thus beare thy slanders with thee to thy graue.
If I at Grausend rim'd for fourteene pence,
For 12 pence thou hast row'd that voyage since:
Allow it were no more, I bor't away
With better credit, then thou didst thy Play.
Thy enuie is not worth the speaking of;
The more thou rail'st at me, the more I laugh:
I scorne to begge (as thou dost) Poets phrases,
To raise my name; let merit sing my praises:
For were they meaner then thy owne desert,
They were the worse where thou shouldst sing a part:
Thou dost but thinke there's nothing good in me,
But I am sure there is much lesse in thee.
That hate thou bear'st me, prethee beare me still,
My good with enuie all thy veines shall fill,
Vntill they swell and burst thy angry gall:
Then if I liue, I will lament thy fall,
And on thy graue this Epitaph bestow,
For to be read for either friend or foe.

Epitaph.

Here lyes a Carkasse in this Graue,
Who while he liu'd, would rayle and raue,
Borrow his wit from others worth,
And in his owne name set it forth:
He row'd from Tyber to the Thames,
And there his tongue himselfe proclaimes,
The luster of all Watermen,
To row with Scull, or write with Pen.
O, had he still kept on the Water,
And neuer come vpon Theater,
He might haue liu'd full merrily,
And not haue di'd so lowsily.
O, 'twas that foolish scuruie Play
At Hope, that tooke his sence away:
Yet he to blot out all his shame,
Imputes the fault on Fennors name;
And rayl'd at him like a mad bodie,
Liu'd a bare Foole, di'd a base Noddie.
But if you'l know what was his name,
I willingly will shew the same:
No Land-Poet, nor Sea-Saylor,
But a poore Sculler, call'd Iohn Taylor:
And had not hate this wonder slaine,
He would haue liu'd a Knaue in graine.
Thus Iack thou seest what friendship I would doe,
Garnish thy Graue out with a verse or two;
But yet thou art aliue, and I surmise,
Thou wilt not dye till Crowes peck out thy eyes.
I'd wish thee sayle vnto some forraine Places,
Where they haue neuer heard of thy disgraces:
The Baramoodes Tongue thou dost professe,
The name of Poet there thou may'st possesse:
There spread thy Pamphlets, make them vnderstand
Thon art the chiefest Poet in that Land.
Thou say'st my pate a mint of lyes can forge,
Indeed t'hast wit ynough thy lyes to scourge:
For I was neither rid South, North, nor East,
But into Warwick-shire, direct North-west:
Nor did I thither ride, to shun thy Play,
But 'twas my Fathers will call'd me away;
And for th'obedience that he in me found,
He gaue me his blessing, with a hundred pound.
Then Sculler know, that was no Tinkers gift,
Nor had I need for thy poore Crowne to shift:
But he that told thee I was gone in't Kent,
Spoke halfe as true as thou dost, lies inuent.
But see how enuie in thy heart doth trot,
Thou grieuest that I a poore mans pardon got;
Is thy eye euill then, 'cause mine is good?
Or wouldst thou stop my Fountaine with thy mud?
No, spight of thee, thou Canniball to man,
I will not cease to doe what good I can:
Nor doe I looke for Siluer for my meed,
When poore men want, if I can helpe their need:
For though thou rayld'st on me at the Beare garden,
Rather then see thee hang'd, I'd beg thy pardon;
Although it cost me more the suing forth,
In ready money then thy Boat is worth:
So much I tender man, though bred by Nature,
As being image of his high Creator:
But thou that of mans life art no esteemer,
What mercy canst thou hope from thy Redeemer.
Say I had wrong'd thee, thou good-names betrayer,
Thou call'st for vengeance in thy Sauiours prayer:
I will not say so, but it doth appeare,
Thou scarce dost say thy prayers once a yeere.
Thou must forgiue, if thou wouldst be forgiuen;
For if thou fear'st not hell, ne'r hope for heauen.
Thou dost accuse the King as well for Graunts,
As men for Sutes: but leaue these bitter taunts,
And learne in time, blacke tayle of insolence,
To arme thy heart with Christian patience.
Thus haue I answer'd all thy false alarmes:
Now it remaines for me to blaze thy Armes;
For thou hast falsely set vp mine in blue,
Wherefore I meane to haue a bowt with you.
Thy Heraldrie shall not out-strip my braine,
But I'l deuise as good for thee againe:
And first, because all Sculls thou dost excell,
A siluer Oare will for thy Crest doe well,
A paire of Armes bound in a Sable Scarffe,
In a sad field, as large as Wapping Wharffe;
Out of the water shall appeare one dead,
A halter and a crosse-barre o'r his head;
And on his Shield this Motto shall be found,
Taylor the Sculler was both hang'd and drown'd.
In all this blazing thee, no hurt I meane,
But hang thee till the Tide hath washt thee cleane:
And when the billowes o'r thy head are flowing,
And Æolus 'gainst Neptunes brow is blowing,
And Oares and Sculls aboue thy crosse-barre sailing,
There is great hope thou wilt forget thy rayling.
Thus haue I answer'd thee in three dayes space,
And yet my Pen ranne but an ambling pace:
Thus much I mildly write, in hope 'twill mend thee;
If not, the Thames or Wapping shore will end thee.
And last, to shew what course I would direct thee,
Vse honesty, from Tiburne to protect thee.