University of Virginia Library

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.