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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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Le Foggnier. Annagramma. Forge Lieng.
  
  
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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.