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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The praise of cleane Linnen. VVITH THE COMMENDABLE VSE OF THE LAVNDRES. |
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
164
The praise of cleane Linnen. VVITH THE COMMENDABLE VSE OF THE LAVNDRES.
DEDICATED TO THE MOST MONDIFYING, CLARIFYING,
PVRIFYING, AND REPVRIFYING, CLEANSER,
Clearer, and Reformer of deformed and polluted Linnen, Martha Legge
Esquiresse, transparent, vnspotted, Snow Lilly-white Laundresse to the
Right worshipfull and generous the Innes of Court, of the middle Temple,
with diuers others in the ranke of Nobility, Gentility, and tranquility:
your poore and vnknowne Poeticall Oratour Iohn Taylor,
in humility and seruility, craues your Patronages ability,
in defence of his imbecility.
166
Nor from the Fridgide or the Torrid Zone:
She hath not search't Americaes vast bounds,
Nor forag'd ouer Affricks scorched grounds;
For this here vnder writ I trauel'd not
Vnto the Welch, the Irish, or the Scot:
To Towne nor Citty did I make repaire,
Nor did I buy in Market or in Faire
This Linnen treasure, but in Bed alone,
Where (cares except) Bed-fellow had I none.
My drowzy Muse awak'd, and straight she meets
This wel-beloued subiect, 'twixt the sheets.
Yet though not farre my Muse for it did rome,
I did accept it when she brought it home,
And taking pen in hand, I 'gan to write,
What you may read, and reading take delight.
And O sweet Linnen, humbly I implore,
(Though of thee I haue no aboundant store)
Yet, for I am thy seruant at this time,
And with my Muse attend thee with my rime,
Assist thy Poet, neuer let him lacke
A comely, cleanly shirt vnto his backe.
Cleane Linnen is my Mistris, and my Theame
Flowes, like an ouer-flowing plenteous streame,
But first I will discouer what I meane,
By this same seemly word, which men call Cleane:
As Titans light's offenciue to the Owle,
So, Cleane is opposite to what is foule:
Yet (in the ayre) some flying Fowle there are,
Which tane, and cleanly drest, are Fowle cleane fare,
But fouly drest, when it is fairely tooke:
Foule is that Fowle, a foule ill take that Cooke.
But to the word cal'd Cleane, it is allotted,
The admirable Epithite Vnspotted,
From whence all soyl'd pollution is exiled,
And therefore Cleane is called vndefiled:
'Tis faire, 'tis clarifi'd, 'tis mundifi'd,
And from impurity is purifi'd.
But to be truly Cleane is such a state,
As gaines the Noble name immaculate:
And I wish all mankind the grace might win,
To be (as here I meane) all Cleane within.
As 'tis no grace a man a man to be,
If outward forme want inward honesty:
So Linnen if with (Cleane) it be not grac'd,
'Tis noysome, lothsome, and it giues distaste.
As Vertue man or woman doth adorne,
So (Cleane) is Linnens vertue; and is worne
For pleasure, profit, and for ornament,
Throughout the Worlds most spacious continent.
Much more of this word (Cleane) might here be writ,
But tediousnesse is enemy to wit,
Cleane Linnen now my verse descends to thee,
Thou that preordinated wert to be,
Our Corps first Couer, at our naked birth:
And our last garment when we turne to Earth.
167
As a Memento of mortalitie:
And that a Sheet vnto the greatest State,
Is th' Alpha and Omega of his fate.
As at our births Cleane Linnen doth attend vs,
So doth it all our whole liues race befriend vs;
Abroad, at home, in Church or Common-wealth,
At bed, or boord, in sickenesse and in health.
It figures forth the Churches puritie,
And spotlesse Doctrine, and integritie:
Her State Angelicall, white innocence,
Her nursing loue, and bright magnificence.
Yet some for Linnen doe the Church forsake,
And doe a Surplice for a Bug-beare take.
But alwayes to the Church I bring mine eares,
Not eyes to note what roabes Church-men weares:
Now from the Church, let vs returne but home.
And there the cloth is laid against you come:
Though raging hunger make the Stomacke wroth,
'Tis halfe asswag'd by laying of the Cloth.
For in the warres of eating 'tis the vse,
A Table of cloth is hungers flagge of Truce:
Whilst in the fight the Napkins are your friends,
And wait vpon you, at your fingers ends.
Your Dinner and your Supper ouer-past,
By Linnen in your beds, you are imbrac'd,
Then, 'twixt the sheetes refreshing rest you take,
And turne from side to side, and sleepe and wake:
And sure the sheetes in euery Christian Nation
Are walles or limits of our generation;
For where desire, and loue, combined meets,
Then there's braue doings 'twixt a paire of sheets:
But where a Harlots lust doth entertaine,
There one sheets pennance, bides the shames of twaine:
To all degrees my counsaile here is such
That of the lower sheet, take not too much.
As from our beds we doe oft cast our eyes,
Cleane Linnen yeelds a shirt before we rise,
Which is a garment shifting in condition,
And in the Canting tongue is a Commission:
In weale or woe, in ioy or dangerous drifts,
A shirt will put a man vnto his shifts.
For vnto it belongs this fatall lot,
It makes him shift that hath, or hath it not.
The man that hath a shirt doth shift and change,
And he that hath no shirt doth shift and range,
So the conclusion of this point must fall,
He shifteth most that doth not shift at all.
Besides, a shirt, most magically can
Tell if it's owner be an honest man:
The washing will his honesty bewray,
For, the lesse soape will wash his shirt, they say.
Most men Cleane shirts at such esteeme doe prize,
That the poor'st thiefe, who at the gallowes dyes,
If but his shirt is cleane, his mind is eas'd,
He hangs the hansomer, and better pleas'd.
Next, at the smocke I needs must haue a flirt,
(Which is indeed the sister to a shirt)
'Tis many a females Linnen tenement,
Whilest twixt the quarters she receiues her rent.
A Smock's her store-house, or her ware-house rather,
Where shee her commings in doth take and gather.
Her gaines by it are more then can be told,
'Tis her reuenue, and her copy-hold,
Her owne fee simple, shee alone hath power,
To let and set at pleasure euery houre:
'Tis a commodity that giues no day,
'Tis taken vp, and yet yeelds ready pay.
But for most other wares, a man shall bee
Allow'd for payment dayes three months and three.
Yet hath a smocke this great preheminence,
(Where honour's mix'd with modest innocence)
It is the Roabe of married chastitie,
The vaile of Heauen-belou'd Virginitie,
The chaste concealemēt of those fruits close hidden,
Which to vnchaste affections are forbidden,
It is the Casket or the Cabinet,
Where Nature hath her chiefest Iewels set:
For whatsoe'r men toyle for, farre and neere,
By sea or land, with danger, cost, and feare,
Warres wrinkled brow, & the smooth face of peace,
Are both to serue the smocke, and it's increase.
The greatest Kings, and wisest Counsellours,
Stout Soldiers, and most sage Philosophers,
The welthiest Merchants, and Artificers,
Pleibeians, and Plow-toyling labourers,
All these degrees, and more haue woo'd and praid,
And alwayes to the smocke their tributes paid.
Besides, 'tis taken for a fauour great,
(When one his mistris kindly doth intreat)
He holds these words as Iewels dropt from her,
You first shall doe as doth my Smocke, sweet Sir.
This Theame of smocke is very large and wide,
And might (in verse) be further amplifide:
But I thinke best a speedy end to make,
Lest for a smel-smocke some should me mistake:
I first began it with a flirt or flout,
And ending, with a mocke, I will goe out.
The Anagram of Smocke I find is Mockes,
And I conclude, A pox of all strait smockes.
Now vp aloft I mount vnto the Ruffe,
Which into foolish mortals pride doth puffe:
Yet Ruffes antiquity is here but small,
Within this eighty yeeres, not one at all;
For the eighth Henry, (as I vnderstand)
Was the first King that euer wore a Band,
And but a falling Band, plaine with a hem,
All other people knew no vse of them,
Yet imitation in small time began,
To grow, that it the Kingdome ouer-ran:
The little falling-bands encreac'd to Ruffes,
Ruffes (growing great) were waited on by Cuffes,
168
We make our Ruffes as carelesse as we are:
Our Ruffes vnto our faults compare I may,
Both carelesse, and growne greater euery day.
A Spaniards Ruffe in follio, large and wide,
Is th'abstract of ambitions boundlesse pride.
For roundnesse 'tis the Embleme, as you see,
Of the terrestriall Globes rotunditie,
And all the world is like a Ruffe to Spaine,
Which doth encircle his aspiring braine,
And his vnbounded pride doth still persist,
To haue it set, and poaked as he list.
The sets to Organ-pipes, compare I can,
Because they doe offend the Puritan,
Whose zeale doth call it superstition,
And Badges of the Beast of Babilon.
Ruffes onely at the first were in request,
With such as of abilitie were best:
But now the plaine, the stich'd, the lac'd, and shagge,
Are at all prices worne by tagge, and Ragge.
So Spaine (who all the world would weare) shall see,
Like Ruffes, the world from him shall scat'red bee.
As for the Cuffe 'tis pretily encreast,
(Since it began, two hand fuls at the least:)
At first 'twas but a girdle for the wrist,
Or a small circle to enclose the fist,
Which hath by little and by little crept;
And from the wrist vnto the elboe leap't,
Which doth resemble sawcy persons well,
For giue a Knaue an inch, hee'l take an ell.
Ruffes are to Cuffes, as 'twere the breeding mothers,
And Cuffes are twins in pride, or two proud brothers.
So to conclude, Pride weares them for abuse,
Humilitie, for ornament and vse,
A Night-cap is a garment of high state,
Which in captiuitie doth captiuate
The braine, the reason, wit, and sense and all,
And euery night doth beare sway capitall.
And as the horne aboue the head is worne,
So is the Night-cap worne aboue the horne,
And is a Sconce or Block-house for the head,
Wherein much matter is considered,
And therefore (when too much wee sucke the tap)
'Tis truly called a considering Cap.
By day it waits on Agues, Plurifies,
Consumptions and all other malladies,
A day worne Night-cap, in our Common-wealth,
Doth shew the wearer is not well in health:
Yet some mens folly makes my muse to smile,
When for a kib'd heele, broken shin, or bile,
Scab'd hams, cut fingers, or a little sear,
A Groyne Bumpe, or a Goose from Winchester:
When I see Night-caps worne for these poore vses,
It makes my worship laugh at their abuses.
Thus is a Night-cap most officious,
A Captaine, Captious, and Capritious,
And though vnmarried young men may forbeare it,
Yet age, and wedlocke makes a man to weare it.
A Handkerchiefe may well be cal'd in briefe,
Both a perpetuall leacher, and a thiefe,
About the lippes it's kissing, good and ill,
Or else 'tis diuing in the pocket still,
As farre as from the pocket to the mouth,
So is it's pilgrimage with age or youth.
At Christning-banquets and at funerals,
At weddings (Comfit-makers festiuals)
A Handkerchiefe doth filch most manifold,
And sharke and steale as much as it can hold.
'Tis soft, and gentle, yet this I admire at,
At sweet meates 'tis a tyrant, and a pyrat.
Moreouer 'tis a Handkerchiefes high place,
To be a Scauenger vnto the face,
To clense it cleane from sweat and excrements,
Which (not auoyded) were vnsauory scents;
And in our griefes it is a trusty friend,
For in our sorrow it doth comfort lend:
It doth partake our sighes, our plaints and feares,
Receiues our sobs, and wipes away our teares.
Thus of our good and bad it beares a share.
A friend in mirth a comforter in care.
Yet I haue often knowne vnto my cost,
A Handkerchiefe is quickly found, and lost.
Like loue where true affection hath no ground.
So is it slightly lost, and lightly found;
But be it ten times lost, this right I'l doe it,
The fault is his or hers that should looke to it.
Should I of euery sort of Linnen write,
That serues vs at our need, both day and night,
Dayes, months and yeeres, I in this Theame might spend
And in my life time scarcely make an end.
Let it suffice that when 'tis fretted out,
And that a cloth is worne into a clout,
Which though it be but thin and poore in shape,
A Surgeon into lint the same will scrape,
Or rolles, or bolsters, or with plaster spread,
To dresse and cure, all hurts from heele to head,
For gangrens, vlcers, or for wounds new hack'd,
For cuts, and slashes, and for Coxcombs crack'd.
Thus many a Gallant that dares stab and swagger,
And 'gainst a Iustice lift his fist or dagger:
And being mad perhaps, and hot pot-shot,
A crazed Crowne or broken-pate hath got;
Then ouer him old Linnen domineeres,
And (spight of's teeth) it clouts him 'bout the eares.
Thus new or old, it hath these good effects,
To cure our hurts, or couer our defects:
And when it selfe's past helpe, with age and rending,
Quite past selfe mending, 'tis our means of mēding,
The flint and steele will strike bright sparkling fire;
But how can wee haue fire at our desire,
Except old Linnen be to tinder burn'd,
Which by the steele and flint to fire is turn'd?
169
My Muse hath worne to clowts, or turn'd to ashes.
And ther's the end on't. Now I must pursue,
(The old consumed) how to purchase new.
Now of the louely Laundresse, whose cleane trade
Is th'onely cause that Linnen's cleanely made:
Her liuing is on two extremes relying,
Shee's euer wetting, or shee's euer drying.
As all men dye to liue, and liue to dye,
So doth shee dry to wash, and wash to drye.
Shee runnes like Luna in her circled spheare,
As a perpetuall motion shee doth steare.
Her course in compasse round and endlesse still,
Much like a horse that labours in a mill:
To shew more plaine how shee her worke doth frame,
Our Linnen's foule e'r shee doth wash the same:
From washing further in her course she marches,
She wrings, she folds, she pleits, she smoothes, she starches,
She stiffens, poakes, and sets and dryes againe,
And foldes: thus end of paine begins her paine.
Round like a whirligigge or lenten Top,
Or a most plenteous spring, that still doth drop.
The Suddes vnto the Sea I may compare,
The Reake or smocke, the wind; the fishes Linnen are,
The Laundresse fishes, foaming froth doth lighten,
The whilest her tongue doth thunder & affrighten,
The totall is a tempest full of chiding,
That no man in the house hath quiet byding.
For Laundresses are testy and full of wroth,
When they are lathering in their bumble broth,
Nor can I blame them, though they brawle & talke,
Men there haue nought to doe, they may goe walke:
Yet commonly their worke this profit brings,
The good-wife washeth, and her husband wrings.
But though my verse thus merrily doth stray,
Yet giue the Laundresse still her due I pray:
What were the painefull Spinner, or the Weauer,
But for her labour, and her good endeauour,
What were the function of the Linnen Draperye,
Or Sempsters odmirable skill in Naperye?
They all might turne and wind, and liue by losse,
But that the Laundresse giues their worke a glosse,
All Linnen that wee vse to weare, 'tis plaine,
The Laundresse labour giues it grace and gaine,
Without her 'tis most loathsome in distaste,
And onely by her paines and toyle 'tis grac'd,
Shee is the ornamentall Instrument,
That makes it tastefull to the sight and scent:
All you man-monsters, monstrous Linnen soylers,
You shirt polluting tyrants, you sheets spoylers,
Robustious rude Ruffe-rending raggamentoyes
Terratritorian tragma Troynouantoyes
Remember that your Laundresse paines is great,
Whose labours onely keepe you sweet and neat:
Consider this, that here is writ, or said,
And pay her, (not as was the Sculler paid)
Call not your Laundresse slut or slabb'ring queane,
It is her slabb'ring that doth keepe thee cleane,
Nor call her not Drye-washer in disgrace,
For feare shee cast the suddes into thy face:
By her thy Linnen's sweet and cleanely drest,
Else thou wouldst stinke aboue ground like a beast.
There is a bird which men Kings fisher call,
Which in foule weather hath no ioy at all,
Or scarce abroad into the ayre doth peepe,
But in her melancholy nest doth keepe:
Till Tytans glory from the burnish'd East,
Rich Bridegroome-like in gold and purple drest,
Guilds, and enamels mountaines, woods, and hilles,
And the rotundious Globe with splendor filles,
In these braue Buksome merry Halcion dayes,
Then this most bewteous bird her plumes displaies.
So doth a Laundresse, when the Sun doth hide
His head, when skyes weepe raine and thunder chide,
When powting, lowring, slauering sleete & snow,
From foggy Austers blustring iawes doth blow,
Then shee in moody melancholy sittes,
And sighing, vents her griefe by girds and fittes:
Her liquid Linnen piteous pickl'd lyes,
For which shee lowres and powts as doth the skies,
But when bright Phœbus makes Aurora blush,
And roabes the welkin with a purple flush,
Whē mourning cloudes haue wasted all their teares,
And welcome weather faire and dry appeares,
Then to the hedge amaine the Laundresse ambles,
In weeds of pennance clothing bryers and brambles,
Like a Commaundresse, vsing martiall Lawes,
She strikes, she poakes and thrusts, she hangs and drawes,
She stiffens stifly, she both opes and shuttes,
She sets, and out she pulles, and in she puttes.
Nor caring much if wind blow low or hye,
Whilst drunkards thirst for drink, she thirsts to dry.
Thus hauing shew'd the Laundresse praise and paine,
How end or worke begins her worke againe:
I hope amongst them they will all conclude,
Not to requite me with ingratitude:
But as an Act they'l friendly haue decreed,
I ne'r shall want Cleane Linnen at my need.
Whil'st to their owne contentments I comend them,
And wish faire drying weather may attend them.
If thankefully you take this worke of mine,
Hereafter I will cause the muses nine,
To helpe me adde, to what seemes here diminish'd,
So Vale Tote, here my Booke is Finish'd.
170
FINIS.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |