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 |
 |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
IOHN GARRETS GHOST.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
177
IOHN GARRETS GHOST.
The doores and windowes of the Heauens were barr'd,And Nights blacke Curtaine, like an Ebon Robe,
From Earth did all Celestiall light discard,
And in sad darknesse clad the ample Globe;
Dead midnight came, the Cats 'gan catterwaule,
The time when Ghosts and Goblings walke about;
Bats flye, Owles shrick, & dismall Dogs doe bawle,
Whiles conscience cleare securely sleeps it out.
At such a time I sleeping in my bed,
A vision strange appear'd vnto my sight,
Amazement all my senses ouer spread,
And fill'd me full with terrour and afright.
A merry graue aspect me thought he had,
And one he seem'd that I had often seene:
Yet was he in such vncouth shape yclad,
That what he was, I could not wistly weene.
His cloake was Sack, but not the Sacke of Spaine,
Canara, Mallago, or sprightfull Shery,
But made of Sack-cloth, such as beares the graine,
Good salt, & coles, which makes the Porters weary;
Lac'd round about with platted wheaten straw,
For which he nothing to the Silke-man owed:
A wearing neuer mention'd in the Law,
And yet far off, like good gold lace it show'd.
Lin'd was his mantle with good Essex plush,
Pyde Calues skins, or Veale sattin, which you will:
178
I (naturally) sau'd the labour still.
A hat like Grantham steeple, for the crowne
Or Piramide was large in altitude:
With frugall brim, whereby he still was knowne
From other men amongst a multitude.
A Princes shooe, he for a iewell wore,
Two ribbonds, and a feather in his beauer,
Which shape me thought I oft had seene before,
Yet out of knowledge where, as't had bin neuer.
He in his hand a flaming torch did hold,
(And as he neerer did approach to me)
My hayre 'gan stand on end, feare struck me cold;
Feare not, I am Iohn Garrets ghost, quoth he,
I come to rowze thy dull and lazy Muse
From idlenesse, from Lethe's hatefull lake:
And therefore stand vpon no vaine excuse,
But rise, and to thy tooles thy selfe betake.
Remember me, although my carkasse rot,
Write of me, to me, call me Foole or Iester.
But yet I pray thee (Taylor) ranke me not,
Among those knaues that doe the world bepester,
Thou wrot'st of great O toole and Coriat,
Of braue Sir Thomas Parsons, Knight o'th Sun,
And Archy hath thy verse to glory at,
And yet for me thou nought hast euer done.
Write that in Ireland, I in Mars his crayne,
Long time did vnder noble Norris serue:
Where (as I could) I stood 'gainst Pope and Spaine,
Whilst some were slain, & some wth want did starue
Where shot, & wounds, & knocks, I gaue and tooke,
Vntill at last halfe maimed as I was,
A man decrepit, I those warres forsooke,
And (with my Passe) did to my Country passe.
Where getting health, I then shooke hands with death,
And to the Court I often made resort.
Where Englands mighty Queene Elizabeth
Allow'd me entertainment for disport.
Then by the foretop did I take old time:
Then were not halfe to many fooles as now;
Then was my haruest, and my onely prime,
My purse receiuing what my wit did plow.
Then in such compasse I my iests would hold,
That though I gaue a man a gird or twaine,
All his reuenge would be to giue me gold,
With commendations of my nimble braine.
Thus liu'd I till that gracious Queene deceast,
Who was succeeded by a famous King:
In whose blest Sons reigne (I with yeeres opprest)
Me to my graue, sicknesse and death did bring.
And now (kind Iacke) thou seest my ayrie forme,
Hath shaken off her Iayle of flesh and bone,
Whilest they remaine the feast of many a worme,
My better part doth visit thee alone.
And as betweene vs still, our good requests,
Thou neuer me, I neuer thee deny'd:
So for my sake collect some merry iests,
Whereby sad time may be with mirth supply'd.
And when 'tis written, find some good man forth,
One (as thou think'st) was when I liu'd my friend:
And though thy lines may be but little worth,
Yet vnto him my duty recommend.
So farewell Iacke, dame Luna 'gins to rise,
The twinkling stars begin to borrow light:
Remember this my suit, I thee aduise,
And so once more good honest Iacke good night.
With that more swifter then a shaft from bow,
He cut and curried through the empty ayre,
Whilest I amaz'd with feare, as could as snow,
Straight felt my spirits quickly to repayre.
And though I found it but a dreame indeed,
Yet for his sake of whom I dreamed then,
I left my bed, and cloath'd my selfe with speed,
And presently betooke me to my pen:
Cleere was the morne, and Phœbus lent me light,
And (as it followeth) I began to write.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |