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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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
26
A FEW LINES, TO SMALL PURPOSE, AGAINST THE SCANDALOUS ASPERSIONS, that are either maliciously, or ignorantly cast vpon the Poets and Poems of these Times.
There doth a strange, and true opinion runne,That Poets write much worse, then they haue don:
And how so poore their daily writings are,
As though their best inuentions were thread-bare.
And how no new things from them now do spring,
But all hath ref'rence from some other thing:
And that their daily doings doe reueale,
How they from one another filch and steale,
As if amongst them 'twere a statute made,
That they may freely vse the theeuing trade.
And some there are that will not sticke to say,
That many Poets liuing at this day,
27
And in th'Italian and the French haue skill,
These are the greatest theeues they say, of all
That vse the Trade (or Art) Poeticall.
For ancient Bards, and Poets in strange toungs,
Compiled haue their verses and their songs:
And those to whō those tongues are rightly known,
Translating them, make others verse their owne;
As one that steales a Cloake, and presently
Makes it his owne, by alt'ring of the dye.
So whole bookes, and whole sentences haue bin
Stolne, and the stealers, great applause did win,
And by their filching thought great men of fame,
By those that knew not the right Authors name.
For mine owne part, my Conscience witnesse is,
I n'er was guilty of such theft as this,
Vnto such robbery I could neuer reach,
Because I vnderstand no forreigne speach.
To prooue that I am from such filching free,
Latin and French are heathen-Greeke to me,
The Grecian, and the Hebrew Charactars,
I know as well, as I can reach the Stars.
The sweet Italian, and the Chip Chop Dutch,
I know, the man i'th Moone can speake as much.
Should I from English Authors, but purloyne,
It would be soone found counterfeited coyne.
Then since I cannot steale, but some will spy,
Ile truely vse mine owne, let others lye.
Yet to excuse the writers, that now write,
Because they bring no better things to light:
Tis because bounty from the world is fled,
True liberality is almost dead.
Reward is lodg'd in darke obliuion deep,
Bewitch't (I thinke) into an endlesse sleepe,
That though a man in study take great paines,
And empt his veines, puluerize his braines,
To write a Poem well, which being writ
With all his Iudgement, Reason, Art, and Wit,
And at his owne charge, print and pay for all,
And giue away most free, and liberall
Two, three, or foure, or fiue hundred bookes,
For his reward he shall haue nods and lookes;
That all the profit a mans paines hath gat,
Will not suffice one meale to feed a Cat.
Yet still Noble Westminster, thou still art free,
And for thy bounty I am bound to thee:
For hadst not thou, and thy Inhabitants,
From Time to Time relieu'd and help'd my wants,
I had long since bid Poetry adieu,
And therefore still my thankes shall be to you.
Next to the Court, in generall I am bound
To you, for many friendships I haue found.
There (when my purse hath often wanted bait)
To fill or feed it, I haue had receite.
So much for that, I'le now no more rehearse,
They shew their loues in prose, my thankes in verse:
When death, Mecænas did of life depriue,
Few of his Noble Tribe were left aliue,
This makes inuention to be meane and hard,
When Pride and Auarice doth kill reward.
And yet me thinkes, it plainely doth appeare,
Mens writings are as good as e're they were.
Good lines are like a Banquet ill imployd,
Where too much feeding hath the stomack cloyd.
Good verses fall sometimes (by course of fate)
Into their hands that are preiudicate.
And though the Writer n'er so well hath pend,
Yet they'le find fault with what they cannot mend.
Thus many a learned well composed line,
Hath bin a Pearle that's cast before a swine.
Or more familiarly to make compare;
Like Aqua vita giuen vnto a Mare.
These fellowes, (glutted with variety)
Hold good lines in a loath'd saciety,
Whilst paltry Riming, Libels, Iigges and Iests,
Are to their appetites continuall feasts,
With which their fancies they doe feed and fill,
And take the Ill for good, the Good for ill.
Whilst like to Mōkeyes, scorning wholsome meate)
They greedily doe poysnous spiders eate.
So let them feed vntill their humours burst,
And thus much bold to tell them heere I durst,
That Poetry is now as good as euer,
If to bounty, relieue her would endeuer.
Mens mindes are worse then they haue bin ofyore,
Inuention's good now, as it was before.
Let liberality awake, and then
Fach Poet in his hand will take a pen,
And with rare lines inrich a world of paper,
Shall make Apollo, and the Muses caper.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |