University of Virginia Library

A CAST OVER THE VVATER, BY JOHN TAYLOR.

Giuen Gratis to William Fennor, the Rimer, From London to the Kings Bench.

[He giues himselfe an honest good report]

He giues himselfe an honest good report,
And to himselfe he is beholden for't:
Yet 'twixt the greatest knaue and him, I weene,
Ther's thus much ods, A pair of sheers between.

Master Fennors taking Boate.

Come fellow Bull-beefe, quicke, thrust in the boat,
Here comes a braue fare in a horsemans coat;
Hold in man: Sir, lend me your worships hand,
Take heed, t'hath rain'd, 'tis slippery Sir to stand.
But sit you downe, we haue the winde and tide,
Good Sir, a little on the Star-boord side.
Thrust off now: I am glad I haue you here,
Good Master Fennor (alias) Le Fognier:
You are a fare falne to my lot diuinely,
Trim you my Boat, and I will trim you finely:
And as I Row, Ile tell you whom I am;
I am Iohn Taylor made your Annagram.

In defence of the true Annagram I made of William Fennor. Nv Uillany for mee.

That I thy Annagram did truely finish,
No letter did I adde, or none diminish:
For which Nu Villany for me's the same,
True Annagram of William Fennors name.
Thou think'st to make thy Reputation stretch,
And out of Normandy thy name wilt fetch:
Where men may see thy folly plaine appeare,
Thou wilt (forsooth) be called Le Fognier.
Le Fognier, out alas thy wits are fogg'd;
I can but laugh to see thee mir'd and bogg'd,
But holla, holla, hobby, hold my fist,
I'l helpe thee out of this blacke foggy mist.

Le Foggnier. Annagramma. Flieng Roge.

How lik'st thou this braue Annagram, 'tis true,
And euery letter in his place, is due:
And for thy further grace shal't haue another,
Ile hardly do so much for mine owne Brother.

Le Foggnier. Annagramma. Forge Lieng.

Thou seest how I haue help'd thee at a pinch,
And Annagramatiz'd thee to an inch:
The sunshine of my Muse the Fog hath broke,
And clear'd thy Name from out the misty smoake.
Thou shew'st thy plenteous beggery of wit,
That mak'st thy Annagram so much vnfit;
Thy Name's but thirteene letters (as I weene)
And in thy Annagram thou hast fifteene.
Then William Fennor's Annagram's not such,
I will feare no man, 'sE and A to much:
I guesse (at first) thy Ancestors did keepe
Within some fenny ground, Hogs, Kine, or sheep;
And liuing Hogheards, or poore labring men,
They tooke their Names of Fennor, from the Fen.
And now to write a iest, my Muse doth smile,
I thinke thou wast begotten on a stile:
Thy father looking one way, and thy mother,
For feare of being spide, she look'd another;
And leering sundry waies, kept carefull watch,
Lest any at their businesse should them catch.
And that's the reason why thine eies doe rowle,
And squint so in thy doltish iobbernowle.
I cry thee mercy, in my other booke,
Thy Coat of Armes I very much mistooke.
As from the Fen at first thou didst suruiue,
Thy Scutchion from the Fen I will deriue.
Marke how I will emblaze thee, I'l be briefe,
Within a Quagmire-field, two Toades in Chiefe,
A Lope-staffe for the Bend, I hold it best,
A paire of Oxe hornes Rampant, for the Crest,
Well Mantled with an old Raw tough Cow-hide,
Thus I my armes diuide, and subdiuide.
For calling me a Taylor and a shred,
A dish not worthy whereon to be fed;
Could I but Cut, and sow, and steale and stitch
As well as thou canst lye, I would be rich.
The Time hath bin a Poor-Iohn's scraps would fill
The hungry Maw of thredbare Lowzy Will.
Thou hast forgot thou rim'st to me of late
For sixteene Oysters once at Billingsgate,
Thou hast forgot I gaue thee my old breeches,
Because thou sung'st & spok'st extrump'ry speeches
When barly bread and Lamp oyle thou didst eate,
A Poor-Iohn then with thee had bin good meat.

Vpon his false Annagram on my name.

Art not asham'd to be so false in print,
Thy Muse is like thine Eyes (sure) all a squint,
The world may see my name no E affords,
And thou hast thrust in two, to make vp words;
O hate rayle on, and then rayle on O hate,
Thy wit, I see, is in a desp'rate state,
Else thou wouldst neuer (vnto all mens view)
Declare thy folly, printing things vntrue;
For thine owne sake let Annagrams aloue,
Thou canst not make a true one, then make none.

To him I hold too vnworthy to be my foe: William Fennor.

Thou hast look't ouer, I perceiue and seene,
Th'inuectiue Scourge of my reuenging spleene,
And wisely (as thou dem'st) thou weighest it lightly,
Thou Gracelesse, disgrace thou esteemest slightly:
There's not a bad word in it that is writ,
But well thou knowst thou hast deserued it;
And if I thought I ow'd thee any more,
I would rayle on, till I had paid the score:
For though my iust incensed anger sleepe,
Yet doe I keepe my Satyres whip in weepe,
In salt and brine, that to the quicke shall scourge
Thee, or who dares my angry Muse to vrge.
And by your leaue Sir, I'l a little firke yee,
And with a milder lash I'l gently ierke yee.
I will not rayle, or rogue thee, or be-slaue thee,
But I will finely baffle, beard, and braue thee:
I'l squeeze, & crush, and vnto poulder pounce thee,
I'l make thy wits for euer to renounce thee.
I'l lay thee open, and I will attaint thee,
And for a pittifull poore scab I'l paint thee.
I'l nip, and strip, and whip thee out of breath,
Like Bubonax, I'l rime thee vnto death.
Thou sayst my verse is impotent and hault,
Thou dost accuse me for thy onely fault;
Alack in Rime thou canst doe naught but cobble,
Thy cripled Verses vp and downe doe hobble.
And doe so lamely runne, and rise, and fall,
Like maimed Beggers in an Hospitall.
Thou hast no iudging, vnderstanding eare,
Thy Accents and thy Sillables to reare
Or let them fall: thou botchest many a line,
That I would shame to father such for mine.
When a tressillable a verse doth end,
'Tis harsh, 'tis palty, and it doth offend;
In a translation I with it would beare,
But in Inuention it offends the eare:
Thou often end'st thy lines with Memory,
And then thou answer'st that with Pillory,
And then thou comst vpon me Horribly,
And in conclusion writ'st so lowsily,
That when thou gett'st'a Poets dignity,
I'l hang thee of mine owne benignity.
Ther's many a fault thou mak'st which I wold show
But that I feare 'twould make thee halfe a Poet,
And well I know thou wouldst vnthankfull be,
And wouldst deny thou learndst thy skill of me.
I'l therefore leaue thee as a plague to time,
A selfe-conceited witlesse Asse in Rime.
I know thy ouer-daring minde doth dare
With me and my inuention to compare,
Indeed (by fortune) I some things haue done,
Which many sayes from better wits did run.
But let their enuious misconceit belye me,
Nor thee, or they, or any dares to try me,
But to the purpose, dar'st thou thus much doe
Let one man giue one Theame betwixt vs two,
And on that Theame let both of vs goe write,
And he that best and soonest doth indite,
Giue him the praise; and he that is out-strip'd
(For his reward) let him be soundly whip'd.
To this I dare thee, thou poore Poet Ape
And I'l behang'd if thou a whipping scape.
Thy Muse (or Mule) can frame some Riming notes,
To borrow shillings, six-pences or Groates
Of Vintners boyes, and that's the highest straine
Thy borrowed stolne inuention can attaine.
For thine owne credit some rare worke deuise,
Turne into Verse the Chimney sweepers cries,
Or worke for Tinker, Couers for close stooles,
Then shalt thou be disputed on in Schooles,
And held a braue man, and thy famous Verse
About the Towne thy Patrons will rehearse.
Besides, I wish thee beg the Monopolly,
That to thy selfe thou maist ingrose it wholly,
That none but thee may write the Elegies,
And Epitaphs of Tiburne Tragedies.
And so the Hangmans Poet thou shalt be,
And sometimes haue as good a Fee as he:
No course to thriue is to be counted base,
And I'l speake for thee thou maist haue the place.
I muse how Ladies dares to heare thy stile,
'Tis so abominable harsh and vile,
How canst thou from them any fauour win,
Me thinkes thy Rimes should fret their tender skin.
For 'tis more rougher then a Russian Beare,
And rubs and frets, and gaules each gentle eare.
Thou art the rarest fellow aboue ground,
To serue some Costiue Lord, that is hard bound,
Thy riming would procure an easie stoole,
That seruice hath some sauour, Goodman foole.
The Doctors and Apothecaries swears,
How they will lugge thee by the Asses eares
Because thy riming now doth purge men more,
Then all their Art in many yeeres before.
Thou nam'st here, for a rabblement of fooles,
Tom Coriat, Archy, and the great Otooles.
Asse for thy selfe, a foole I ne'r did take thee,
Dame Nature at the first (I thinke) did make thee
One compound of two simples, Foole and Knaue,
Who striuing in thee which should maistry haue,
The crafty knauish part got all the sway,
And turn'd the silly harmelesse Foole away:
And in thy making Natures care was chiefe,
To fashion thee on purpose for a Thiefe;
Shee turn'd thine eyes keele vpwards, for the nonce,
That thou might'st see fiue or six waies at once.
For why, thou hast an admirable looke,
T'informe a Thiefe, from windowes how to hooke
Apparell, Cushions, Carpet, Rugge, or Sheete,
That they withall by hooke, or crooke, can meete.
I doe not say thou dost this trading vse;
But therein thou thy making dost abuse,
In that thou closely follow'st not the trade,
For which thee & thy thiefe-like eyes were made.
When at a great mans house, men flocke about thee,
'Tis not to heare thee rime, but cause they doubt thee,
And therefore euery one keeps carefull watch
For feare thou should'st the plate, or so what catch:
Thou thinkst they do applaud when thou hast rim'd,
And they are fearefull that thy fists are lim'd.
The Butlers sweat for feare, whil'st thou dost prate,
And double diligently guard their plate.
Thy beautious Phisnomy doth this, for which
Most women feare thee, that thou art a Witch,
And therefore snatch their children vp, and run,
Thy ominous ill-looking looke to shun.
For if before a Iudge, thou euer speake,
Thy very countenance thy neck will breake.
More I could say, and more I could deuise,
But that I thinke I should rime out thine eyes;
If all trades faile, I'd haue thee pull them out,
And I'll procure thee liuing doe not doubt,
I in thy nose will put an Iron ring,
And lead thee vp and downe the Towne to sing,
To Feasts, and Markets, Wakes, & Sturbridge faire,
And then to euery place with me repaire,
I would aduance a faire ingrossed bill,
That in these words should promise wondrous skill.
Then I, or else my Boy, will beat a Drum,
If any be desirous for to come,
At two a clocke within the after noone,
There shall you see an old blind braue Baboone,
That can put on the humor of an Asse,
Can come aloft Iack, heigh passe and repasse;
That for ingenuous study downe can put,
Old Holdens Camell, or fine Bankes his Cut,
And for his action he eclipseth quite,
The Iigge of Garlick, or the Punks delight.
King Ninus motion, or the great tall Dutch-man,
Or th'Elke, or man-Beare baiting was no such man.
To all your costs he will his wis wits imploy,
To play the second part of Englands Ioy.
Hee'l rime, and sing well, and if need require,
Can tell more lies then you would all desire.
Our Lady Fayre, nor yet Saint Bartholomew,
A motion like to this did neuer shew.
These things I hope for to employ thee in,
By which wee needs must store of money win.
I neither hate good counsell, or yet thee,
But why shouldst thou presume to counsell me.
I prethee then leaue off thy fruitlesse taske,
No godnesse comes from such a mustie Caske.

My Defence against thy Offence.

How proudly thou thy Ancestors dost praise,
Aboue the Pleyades, their Fame to raise:
Was euer seene so vile a paltry Nag,
So much of his Antiquity to brag.
As if his Grandam had some Burgesse beene,
In Parlament vnto the Diamond Queene:
If I should answer all thy base contention,
I then should haue no roome for my inuention:
And therefore famous Monsier Le Foggnier.
I will but only nip thee here and there:
According as I see the time and place,
I will my byting phrases enterlace.
And first (Don Bussard) vnto you 'tis knowne,
The writing of my play was all mine owne:
And though thou tearm'st it fopp'ry, like a fop,
Into the Hangmans Budget thou wilt drop,
Before thy muddie Muse (Dame ignorance)
On a conceit so good, as it shall glance.
Thou brag'st what fame thou got'st vpon the stage,
Indeed, thou set'st the people in a rage,
In playing Englands Ioy, that euery man
Did iudge it worse then that was done at Swan.
I neuer saw poore fellow so behist,
T'applaud thee, few or none lent halfe a fist:
Some stinkards hands, perhaps went pit to pat,
Who ignorantly lik'd they knew not what;
Besides, thou knowst, thou promist in thy Bill,
In rare extempory to shew thy skill.
When all thou spok'st, thou studiedst had before,
Thou know'st I know, aboue a month and more.
Besides, the best conceits that were in it,
(Poore Foole) thou had'st them from a better wit,
Then is thine owne, thy beggerly conceit
Could ne'r haue mounted to so high a height.
Good wine is spild, in stinking vessels leaking,
And so good words were mar'd with thy ill speaking:
Where like a Scar-crow) or a Iack of lent
Thou stoodst, and gau'st the people small content:
And yet thy impudence wouldst raise thy fame,
From out the loathsome Garbage of thy shame.
Thy little honesty so high thou deem'st,
And more then Thames reuennew it esteem'st:
Make much on't, thou art worthy to haue more,
Thou mak'st such reck'ning of so little store.
Thy honesty is bred within the bone,
Out of the flesh, I thinke came neuer none:
Thou sai'st I call'd a Christian, Cur, O fie!
Will Fennor, wilt thou neuer leaue to lye?
'Twas thee I call'd so, ponder well vpon't,
For I thinke thou wast neuer at a Font;
I wish thee yet thy Baptisme to procure,
Thou canst not be an Anabaptist sure:
If I should answer euery lye and line,
My booke would then be bigger far, then thine.
Besides, it with my mind doth not agree,
To paraphrase on thy poore stuffe and thee.
Thou put'st one trick vpon me, and a rare one,
Thou'lt make me vnder Sculler vnto Charon;
When thou com'st to the Deuill on a message,
Then I'l take nothing of thee for thy passage:
And for my loue (then thine) shall not be shorter,
Thou shalt be Plutoes vgly vnder Porter.
For Cerberus and thee must needs agree,
Thy one good face, accommodates his three.
Thou bid'st me watch and write, and doe my worst,
And sai'st, thy Pen and Inkehorne is as curst.
I thinke 'tis curst indeed, for I protest,
That neither thee, or them, was neuer blest:
Perhaps thou hast good Paper, Pens, and Inke,
But thy inuention (Fogh) how it doth stinke.
Thou bid'st me fall vnto my Scull againe,
And hold'st my calling in thy high disdaine.
Know Peasant, if I were a Baron borne,
Yet I my honest trade would neuer scorne:
A Water-man doth get his bread more true,
Then fifty thousand idle Knaues, like you;
They cannot rime, and cony-catch, and cheat,
For what they haue, they must be sure to sweat.
And I esteeme my labour far more deare,
Then all thy riming's worth in twenty yeere:
I'l carry Whores and Knaues too, for my fee;
For money, I'l transport thy wife and thee:
I'l carry any body for my fare,
Wee haue no power to question what they are.
My Boat is like vnto a Barbers Chaire,
To which both honest men, and Knaues repaire:
No Trades-men, whatsoeuer that they be,
Can get their liuing honester then we.
We labour truly, and we take great paine,
With hands and feet, we stretch out euery vaine:
Thy hands did neuer worke, thou art so nice,
Except 'twere in thy Doublet cracking lice.
And not to brag, but to our trades great fame,
The learned Sapho, that admired Dame,
Who could the Saphicke Verse so rarely write,
Did wed a Water-man, who Phaon hight:
Besides, eight Kings, in famous Edgars raigne,
To row with Oares did hold it no disdaine:
But as Records and Chronicles relate,
They row'd vnto the Parlament in State.
Thou maist infer these Kings, were captiues all:
Why? are not all men so by Adams fall.
Nay more, when water the first world did end,
The second world did presently descend,
From the High Admirall of Heau'n and Earth,
The Patriarke Noah, we had second birth:
He ferri'd mankind to this worlds Lee shore,
From the bar'd-hauen of the world, before
Such Landsharkes as thy selfe, their way did take,
Downe through the Deluge to Cocitus Lake,
Where all the comfort the poore Caitiffes found,
Was this, that all the Gallowses were drown'd:
No Authors write, no not the Poets tales,
That they lou'd Cheatry, Porposes, or Whales.
One note this History doth more afford,
That all were damb'd that scorn'd to lie aboord,
No part of this world we inherit can,
But by our Title from a Waterman.
Then wrong not vs with thy calumnious tongue,
For from a Waterman we all are sprung:
From Iaphets Ioynes I well descended am,
And thou (my cursed Couzin) cam'st from Cham.
Besides thus much, thy Ignorance may note,
That all the world may well be cal'd a Boat,
Tost on the troublous waues of discontent,
All subiect vnto change, vnpermanent.
Our life's the tide, which euer ebbes and flowes,
And to their iournies end all Creatures rowes:
The Souldier with his sword rowes vp and down.
And floats in bloud sometimes to gaine a Crown.
The Lawyer rowes, and makes his tongue his oare,
And sometimes sets his Clyent poore ashoare.
But the Deuine (of all men) he rowes best.
He brings vs safely to the Port of rest:
He lands vs at our euerlasting Inne,
And the tenth penny for his paines doth winne.
Thus Fennor thou mai'st see, that Watermen
Are farre beyond the limits of thy Pen
To doe them wrong; I could speake more of this,
But that I thinke enough sufficient is.
Thou sai'st that Poetry descended is
From pouertie, thou tak'st thy markes amisse.
In spight of weale or woe, or want of pelfe,
It is a Kingdome of content it selfe.
A Poet's here or there, or where he please,
In Heau'n, in Ayre, in Earth, in Hell, or Seas,
Gods, men, fish, fowle, beasts, and infernall fiends,
All tributary homage to him sends;
They're called makers, for they'l vndertake
By Art, of nothing something for to make,
And though in making, little skill I haue,
Yet could I easily make thee a Knaue.
But therein I should be but thy partaker,
A Knaue thou art, and so art thine owne maker.
In which thou dost most makers much excell,
For hauing made thy selfe so ill, so well.
And now at thee, once more I'l haue a fling,
Thou saist thou hadst thy title from the King
Of riming Poet: I beleeue it true.
What name would best befit thee, well he knew,
He call'd thee not a Poet, for deuising,
Or that thou couldst make ought worth memorizing,
He call'd thee riming Poet, note why 'twas,
And I will shew thy picture in a Glasse:
He gaue thy Poetry not Reasons Name;
But Rime, for he knew well his words to frame.
Now what a Rimer is, vnto a Poet,
Because thou knowst it not, I'l make thee know it:
Th'are like Bell-ringers to Musicians,
Or base Quack-saluers to Phisicians;
Or as a Zany to a Tumbler is,
A Rimer's to a Poet such as this;
And such art thou, or in a worse degree:
For if a Poet should examine thee
Of Numbers, Figures, Trimeters, Alchaicks,
Hexameters, Pentameters, Trochaicks,
Iambicks, Allegories, and Allusions;
With Tropes, Similitudes, Types and Conclusions:
And whosoeuer chanceth but to looke
In Chaucer, or th'Arcadia (well writ Booke)
Shall find these Rules which I before haue nam'd,
Which makes a Poets Art for euer fam'd:
And in these things, thy knowledge is no more
Then hath an Asse, a Horse, a Beare, or Bore.
Thou art the Rump, the taile, or basest part
Of Poetry, thou art the dung of Art.
Thou art all Rime, and voyd of reason, thou
Dost cloz: and shut vp lines, no matter how.
Some men will say, I must a Scholler be,
Or else these words could neuer come from me:
To them I answer; I can English read,
But further I could neuer write or plead:
Those words of Art, I know them euery one,
And knowing them, I'l let them all alone;
Because I doe not know well how to vse them,
And by misplacing them, I may abuse them.
When I a learned word in Verse doe plant,
I will be sure to write significant.
So much to them, whose hearts will not beleeue
But that in Poetry I filch and theeue.
I dare them all to try me, and leaue threatning,
The proofe of pudding's alwaies in the eating:
Thus I haue told thee, why, wherefore, and how
His Maiesty did thee that name allow;
The name of Rimer carry to thy graue,
But stile of Poet, thou shalt neuer haue.
Search well in Turn-bull street, or in Pickt-hatch,
Neere Shorditch, or Long-alley prethee watch,
And 'mongst the trading females, chuse out nine
To be thy Muses, they will fit thee fine,
They'l make thy rimes and thee of more account,
And mount thy fame aboue Parnassus Mount:
Thou writst a hotch-potch of some forty lines
About my Play at Hope, and my designes;
Where men may see thy stocke of wit is poore,
To write of that which I had writ before.
Thou fill'st thy Booke with my inuention full,
And shew'st thy selfe an idle shallow Gull:
And then thou talk'st & prat'st, and keep'st a Rut,
And tearm'st my Muse Melpomones Tayle Gut;
I wonder where thou didst that phrase procure,
Thou art beholden to some Tripe-wife sure.
When hunger doth prouoke thee rime and sing,
That Gut will make thy Muse a Chitterling;
For thou from tripes, and tayl-guts, & hogs mawes,
Hast won thy greatest credit and applause,
There's none that eats a Partridge or a Pheasant,
But takes thee for a foole to make them pleasant,
I know not if thy wife be he or shee,
If she be honest, shee's too good for thee.
Thou partly offrest me to hold the dore,
If I will make thy Kitchin-maid my whore:
But prethee hold thy prating, witlesse Gander,
Shalt ne'r haue honor to become my Pander.
Thou saist, I raile, 'tis true, I had decreed
To giue my wronged Muse a purge with speed,
And (as the fittest vessell) 'twas thy lot,
To be her foule vnworthy Chamber-pot:
Shee's well recouer'd, and the world doth see
Her filthy excrements remaine in thee.
No blacke contagious mist her pure light suffers,
But strait she makes of thee a paire of Snuffers,
To make her glorious greatnesse shine more cleere,
And this shall be your office Le Fogniere.
And now a thought into my mind doth creepe,
How thou a Kitchin or a Maid canst keepe:
I know the time thou wouldst haue lick'd thy chaps
From out an Almes-basket to get some scraps,
And hast thou now a Kitchin and large roomes,
To entertaine faire Lasses, and braue Groomes?
I see thou art the frugal'st Lad aliue,
And car'st not greatly what thou dost to thriue.
I wrongly call'd thy Kitchin-seruant, maid;
No maid can dwell with thee, I am afraid:
And now a pretty tale I meane to tell;
Marke it, I prethee, for it fits thee well.
There was a fellow once some faults had done,
Which fearing hanging, did his Country run,
And comming to the City, full of feare,
(Nay note my tale, good Mounsier Le Fognier)
In hope to get his pardon, 'twas his chance
Vpon a man, (as might be thee) to glance,
The poore distressed fellow told his mind,
And said, If any man would be so kind
To get his pardon, and to set him free,
He should haue threescore angels for his Fee:
Now he that this mans pardon should procure,
(To saue his owne stake, and to make all sure)
He leaues the Thiefe in London, and strait went
And brought a Hoy full of his goods from Kent,
Then out of hand, this man like thee, call'd Momus
Did hire a goodly building called Domus,
Which this thiefs houshold-stuffe did furnish well,
And there this Gentleman (like thee) doth dwell.
Now to proceed, the poore vnhappy thiefe
Is ready still to hang himselfe with griefe:
For he is cheated of his goods, I wot,
And knowes not when his pardon will be got.
And 'tis much fear'd, the Cheater his owne selfe,
Will worke some meanes to hang him for his pelfe.
How lik'st thou this, i'st not a pretty trick?
But wherefore dost thou chafe, and spurn and kick:
A guilty conscience feeles continuall feare,
And this discourse doth seem to touch thee neare:
Nay, then I will relate another thing,
Which I suppose will make you wince and fling.
Vpon S. Georges day last, Sir, you gaue
To eight Knights of the Garter (like a Knaue)
Eight Manuscripts (or Bookes) all fairely writ,
Informing them they were your Mother wit,
And you compild them; then were you regarded,
And for anothers wit was well rewarded.
All this is teue, and this I dare maintaine,
The matter came from out a learned braine:
And poore old Vennor, that plaine dealing man,
Who acted Englands Ioy first at the Swan,
Paid eight crownes for the writing of these things,
Besides the couers, and the silken strings:
Which money baeke he neuer yet receiu'd,
So the deceiuer is by thee deceiu'd.
First, by those Bookes thou stol'st a good report,
And wast accounted a rare man in Court:
Next, thou didst much abuse those Noble-men,
And kild'st their bounty, from a Poets Pen.
And thirdly, thou a Poet didst beguile,
To make thy selfe the Author of his stile.
And last, thou shewst thy cheating good and euill,
Beguiling him, that could beguile the Deuill.
Thou highly hast prouok'd the Muses fury,
Twelue Poets are empaneld for thy Iury;
Then William Fennor, stand vnto the Bar,
Hold vp thy hand, here thy accusers are:
Art guilty or not guilty of those crimes
Thou art accus'd, th'ast stole fiue thousand rimes,
From But ends of old Ballads, and whole books,
What saist thou for thy selfe, hold vp thy lookes?
He falters, and his words are all vnsteady,
Poore fellow looks as he were hangd already.
His silence doth affirme these things are true,
And therefore let the Bench in order due
Giue sentence, that within a hempen string
He at S. Thomas Wat'rings may goe swing:
And for he liu'd the wonder of our time,
Do him this honor, hang him vp in rime.
A Sirrha, is the matter falne out so,
Must thou Extemp'ry to the Gallowes goe,
For old atquaintance, e'r thou breathe thy last,
I o'r the Water wiil giue thee A Cast.
And till the halter giue thy necke a wrench,
Thou shalt haue time and space in the Kings Bench,
To Con and fesse, and to repent thy fill,
And to dispose thy goods, and make thy will:
Which being done, and thou well hang'd and dead,
This Epitaph vpon thy graue I'l spread,
That passers by may read, and reading see
How much thou art beholden vnto me.

Epitaph.

An Epilogue.

I told thee I had worser rods in pisse,
Thou findst it true, and I haue worse then this,
Which on occasion I will freely vtter,
If thou but dare against me for to mutter:
In three daies thou didst write that book of thine
Thou saist, and I in fourteene houres did mine.
For I would haue thee well to vnderstand,
I businesse haue by water and by land,
My seruice and occasions me incites
To write by snatches, and by spurts a nights.
That if my businesse were but ouer-past,
The writing such another, I durst fast
From sleepe, or sustenance of meat or drinke,
And such a taske would famish thee I thinke.
I for a wager will be locked vp,
And no reliefe will either bite or sup,
Vntill as much as this my muse deuise,
And scarcely be an hungred when I rise.
Then for thine owne sake (Poet Pedler) cease,
Or bind my sharpe fang'd Muse vnto the peace:
For thou maist sweare, & keep thy conscience cleere
That of thy life thou liu'st in mighty feare.
Shee'l make thee desp'rate, thine owne breath bereaue,
By which, she Hangman thou wilt much deceiue,
Thus doe I leaue my lines to all mens view,
To iudge if I haue paid thee not thy due.
To write of thee againe, my Muse hath ceast,
Sufficient is enough, enough's a feast.
I know thy lying Chaps are stopt for euer,
That all thy study and thy best endeuour,
Nor fifty more such shallow brains as thine,
Can answere this one little booke of mine.
But if thou dost, I know 'twill be so lame,
A wise man will not reade it o'r for shame,
And therefore Fennor gnaw vpon this bone,
What next I write, shall better be or none.

Taylors defence of the honesty of his Blew-Bitch.

Now Fennor once more I'l giue thee a twitch
For hunting hotly after my Blue Bitch:
Beware she doth not teare thee by the throat.
She's neither Salt, nor hot, I'd haue thee know't.
Thou (like a Hound) perhaps maist licke her taile,
But further all thy wits cannot preuaile:
I wish thee from thy Kennell not to roame,
But for thine owne tooth keep thy Brache at home.
My Bitch will bite thee sorely, I am sure.
And where she fangs, 'tis commonly past cure.
At honest men shee'l neuer cry baw waw,
But she will snarle, and snap such knaues as thou.
As for my Cod let her be op'd and rip'd,
Let her be search'd to see what she hath ship'd,
And nothing in her all the world can see,
But sharpe Satyricke whips to torture thee.

His Landing.

Now here Iland thee at S. Mary Awdries,
I think not for your worships wōted bawdries
I know your businesse is not for a wench,
The Tipstaffe tels me you are for the Bench,
Where you may feed your Muse on Carrat rootes,
And lie a bed, borrow no shooes or bootes,
And liue within the rules, a good thing truly,
For such a man as you that liue vnruly:
Farewell, and yet I'l visit you againe,
When in a Rugg you Clamor at the Chaine.
And once againe when it falls to your lot,
Below your eare to weare the pendant knot.
Meane space because you are a merry Greeke,
I'l send thee bread and pottage thrice a weeke.