University of Virginia Library

Foure Clerks of Oxford, Doctors two, and two,
That would be Doctors, having lesse to doe
With Austin, then with Galen, in Vacation
Chang'd studies, and turn'd bookes to recreation
And on the tenth of August Northward bent,
A journey not so soone conceiv'd as spent.

The first halfe day they rode, they light upon
A Noble Clergy host, Kitt Middleton;
Who numbring out good dishes with good tales,
The major part o'th cheere weigh'd downe the scales,
And though the count'nance make the feast, say bookes;
Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes:
Here we payd thankes, and parted, and at night
Had entertainment all in one mans right,
At Flowre, a Village, where our Tenant shee
Sharpe as a winter morning, fierce, yet free,
With a leane visage like a Carved lace
On a Court-cupboard, offer'd up the Place.
She pleas'd us well, but yet her husband better,
A hearty fellow and a good bone-setter;
Now whither it were providence or lucke,
Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke,
There we had ven'son such as Virgill slew,
When he would feast Æneas and his crew;
Here we consum'd a day, and the next morne,
To Daintry with a Land-winde wee were borne,
It was the Market, and the Lecture day,
For Lecturers sell Sermons, as the Lay
Doe sheepe and Oxen, have their seasons just,
For both their Markets, there wee dranke downe dust.
I'th' interim comes a most officious drudge,
His face and gowne draw'd out with the same budge,
His pendant pouch which was both large and wide,
Look'd like a Letters-patents by his side:
He was as awfull as he had beene sent
From Moses with the eleventh Commandement,
And one of us he sought, a man of Flower
He must bid stand, and challenge for an hower:
The Doctors both were quitted of their feare,
The one was hoarse, the other was not there,
Therefore him of the two he seised best,
Able to answer him of all the rest,
Because he needs but ruminate that ore,
Which he had chew'd the Sabbath day before;
For though we were resolv'd to doe him right,
For Master Bayleys sake, and Master Wright,
Yet he dissembl'd that the Mace did erre,
For he nor Deacon was, nor Minister;
No quoth the Serjeant, sure then by relation,
You have a licence Sir, or Toleration;
And if you have no orders 'tis the better,
So you have Dods precepts, or Cleavers letter;
Thus looking on his Mace and urging still,
'Twas Master Wrights, and Master Bayleys will,
That he should mount, at last he condescended
To stoppe the gap, and so the Treaty ended;
The Sermon pleas'd, and when we were to dine,
Wee all had Preachers wages, thankes, and wine.
Our next dayes stage was Littleworth a Towne
Not willing to be noted, or set downe,
By any Traveller, for when we had beene
Through at both ends, wee could not find an Inne,
Yet for the Church sake turne and light wee must,
Hoping to finde one dramme of Wickless dust,
But wee found none, for underneath the Pole,
No more rests of his body, then his Soule,
Abused Martyr, how hast thou beene to me,
By two wilde factions! first the Papists burne
Thy bones for hate, the Puritanes in zeale
Doe sell thy Marble, and thy Brasse they steale.
A Parson met us there who had great store
Of Livings, some say, but of Manners more;
In whose streight cheerefull age a man might see
Well govern'd fortune, bounty, wise and free;
He was our guide to Lester, save one mile,
There was his dwelling where wee stay'd a while
And dranke stale Beere, I thinke was never new,
Which the dunne wench that brought it us did brew;
And now wee are at Lester, where wee shall
Leape o're sixe steeples and an Hospitall
Twice told, those Lande-markes I referre
To Gambdens eye, Englands Chronographer;
Let me observe the Almes mens Herauldry,
Who being ask'd what Henry that should bee
That was their founder Duke of Lancaster,
Answer'd, 'Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you Sir;
And so consuted all their walls that said;
Henry of Richmond this foundation laid.
The next thing to be noted was our Cheere,
Enlarg'd with seaven and six pence, bread and beere.
But O you wretched Tapsters as you are,
Who reckon by your number, not your fare;
And set false figures for all Companies,
Abusing innocent Meales, with oathes and lyes;
Forbeare your Cousnage to Divines that come,
Lest they bee thought to drinke all that you summe.
Spare not the laity in your reckoning thus,
But sure your theft to us is scandalous.
Away my Muse from this base Subject, know
Thy Pegasus nere strucke his foote so low:
Is not th'usurping Richard buryed hero,
That King of hate, and therefore slave of feare;
Drag'd from the fatall field Bosworth, where hee
Lost life, and what he liv'd for, Cruelty?
Search, finde his name, but there is none; O Kings
Remember whence your Powre, and vastnesse springs:
If not as Richard now, so may you bee,
Who hath no Tombe, but Scorne and Memorie.
And though from his owne store Wolsey might have
A Palace, or a Colledge for his grave;
Yet here he lyes interr'd, as if that all
Of him to be remembred were his fall:
Nothing but earth to earth, nor pompous weight
Upon him but a pebble, or a quayte.
If thou art thus neglected, what shall wee
Hope after death that are but shreds of thee?
Hold! William calls to horse, William is he,
Who though he never saw threescore and three,
Ore-reckon'd us in age, as he before
In drink, and will bate nothing of fourescore;
And he commands, as if the warrant came,
From the great Earle himselfe, to Notinghame:
There wee crosse Trent, and on the other side
Pray'd for Saint Andrew, as up hill wee ride.
Where wee observ'd the cunning men like Moles
Dwelt not in houses, but were earth'd in holes.
So did they not build upwards, but digge thorough,
As Hermits Caves, or Coneys doe their Borough.
Great underminers sute as any where,
'Tis thought the powder Traytors practis'd there.
Would you not thinke that men stood on their heads,
When Gardens cover houses there, like leads,
And on the Chimnies toppe, the maide may know,
Whether her pottage boyle, or not, below;
There cast in herbes, or Salt, or bread, her meate,
Contented rather with the smoake, then heate.
This was the rockie Parish, higher stood
Churches and houses, buildings, stone and wood,
Crosses not yet demolish'd, and our Lady,
With her armes on, embracing her whole Baby:
Where let us note, though these be Northerne parts,
The Crosse findes in them more then Southerne harts.
The Castle's next; but what shall wee report,
Of that which now is ruine, was a fort?
The Gates, two Statues keepe, which Gyants are,
To whom, it seemes, committed is the care
Of the whole downefall, if it be your fault,
If you are guilty, may King Davids vault
Or Mortimers darke Cell containe you both,
A just reward for so prophane a sloath;
And if hereafter tydings shall be brought
Of any place, or office to be bought,
And your left lead, or unwedg'd timber yet
Shall passe by your consent to purchase it,
May your deformed Bulkes endure the edge
Of axes, feele the beetle and the wedge,
May all the ballads be call'd in and dye,
That sing the wars of Colebrand, and Sir Guy:
O yee that do Guild Hall and Holmby keepe
So carefully when both the Founders sleepe,
You are good Gyants, and partake no shame,
With these two worthlesse trunks of Notingham:
Looke to your sev'rall charges, we must go,
Though griev'd at heart to leave a Castle so.
The Bull-head is the word, and we must eate,
No sorrow can descend so low as meate:
So to the Inne we came, where our best cheere,
Was that his Grace of Yorke had lodged there.
He was objected to us when we call,
Or dislike ought, my Lords Grace answers all;
He was contented with this bed, this dyet,
This keeps our discontented stomacks quiet.
The Inne keeper was old, fourescore almost,
Indeed an Embleme, rather then an Host;
In whom wee read how God and Time decree,
To honour thrifty Hostlers, such as he:
For, in the stable first he did begin,
Now see he is sole Lord of the whole Inne.
Marke the increase of straw, and hay, and how
By thrift a bottle may become a Mow,
Marke him all yee that have the golden Itch,
All whom God hath condemned to be rich;
Farewell glad father of thy daughter Mayresse,
Thou Hostler Phænix, thy example rare is.

Wee are for Newarke after this sad talke,
And thither 'tis no journey but a walke,
Nature is wanton there, and the high way
Seem'd to bee private though it open lay;
As if some swelling Lawyer for his health,
Or frantique Usurer to tame his wealth,
Had chosen out two miles by Trent, to try
Two great effects of Art and Industry:
The ground wee tread is meadow fertile land,
New trimm'd, and leveld by the Mowers hand,
Above it grew a rocke, rude, steepe and high,
Which claimes a kind of Rev'rence from the Eye:
Betwixt them both there slides a lively streame,
Not loud, but swift: Meander was a Theame
Crooked and rough, but had those Poets seene
Streight-even Trent, it had immortall beene;
This side the open plaine admits the Sunne,
To halfe the River which did open runne;
The other halfe ranne clouds, where the curld wood
With his exalted head threatned the flood:
Here I could wish us never passing by,
And never past; Now Newarke is too nigh;
And as a Christmasse seemes a day but short,
Deluding times with revels, and good sport,
So did this beautious mixture us beguile,
And the whole twelve being travail'd seem'd one mile.

Now as the way was sweete, so was the End,
Our Passage easie, and our prize a Friend;
Whom there we did enjoy, and for whose sake
As for a kind of purer coyne men make
Us lib'rall welcome, with such Harmony
As the whole Towne had beene his Family
Mine host of the next Inne did not repine
That we perfer'd the Hart and pass'd his signe
And where we lay the host and hostesse faine
Would shew our loves were aym'd at, not their gaine.
The very beggers were so ingenuous,
They rather pray for him, then beg of us;
And so the Doctors friends be pleas'd to stay,
The Puritans will let the Organs play.
Would they pull downe the Gallery builded new,
With the Churchwardens seate and Burleigh pew?
Newarke for light, and beauty might compare
With any Church, but what Cathedrals are:
To this belongs a Vicar, who succeeded
The friend I mention'd, such a one there needed,
A man whose life and tongue is eloquent,
Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent.
And urge the Canon home when they conspire
Against the Crosse and Bells with sword and fire:
There stood a Castle too, they shew us here
The place where the King slept, the window where
He talk'd with such a Lord, how long he stayd
In his discourse, and all but what he sayd.
From whence without a perspective we see
Bever and Lincolne, where we faine would bee,
But that our purse, and horses too were bound
Within the compasse of a narrower ground.
Our purpose is all homeward, and 'twas time
At parting to have wit, as well as wine.
Full three a clocke and twenty miles to ride,
Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure Guide:
We wanted both, and Lowborough may glory,
Error hath made it famous in our story.
'Twas night, and the swift horses of the Sunne
Two houres before our Jades their race had runne;
Nor pilot, Moone, nor any such kinde starre,
As guided those Wise men that came from farre,
To holy Bethlem; such lights had they binne
They would have soone conveyd us to an Inne:
But all were wandring starres, and we as they
Were taught no course but to ride on and stray:
When Oh the fate of darknesse, who hath try'd it,
Here our whole Fleete it scatter'd, and divided!
And now we labour more to meete, then erst
We did to lodge, the last cryes downe the first;
Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow
Can now no longer tracke us by the hollow;
They curse the foremost, we the hindmost, both
Accusing with like patience, haste, and sloth.
At last upon a little Towne we fall,
Where some for drinke, some for a candle call:
Unhappy we! such straglers as we are,
Admire a Candle oftner then a Starre;
We care not for those glorious lights aloofe,
Give us a tallow Candle, a dry roofe.
And now we have a guide, weele cease to chase,
Now we have time to pray the rest be safe,
Our guide before cries Come, and we the whiles
Ride blindfold, and take bridges to be styles,
Till at the last we overcome the darke,
And spight of night and error hit the marke:
Some halfe houre after enters the whole tayle,
As if they were committed to the Jayle;
The Constable that tooke 'em thus divided,
Made 'em seeme apprehended and not guided,
Where when wee had our fortunes both detested,
Compassion made us friends, and so we rested;
Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay,
Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay;
All Travellers these heavy judgements heare,
A handsome hostesse makes a reckoning deare:
Her smiles, her words, your purses must require 'em,
And every welcome from her adds an Item.
Glad to be gone from hence, at any rate,
For Bosworth wee are hors'd: behold the fate
Of mortall men, foule error is a mother,
And pregnant once doth soone beget another.
Wee who last night did learne to lose our way,
Are perfect since, and further out next day,
And in a Forest having travaild sore,
Like wandring Bevis else he sound the Boare,
Or as some Love-sicke Lady oft hath done,
Before she was rescued by the knight o'th' Sunne,
So are we lost, and meet no comfort then
But Carts and horses, wiser then the men:
Which is the way? They neither speake, nor point,
Their tongues and fingers, both are out of joynt,
Such monsters by Cole Herton banks there sit,
After their Resurrection from the pit.
Whiles in this Mill wee labour and turne round,
As in a Conjurers circle, William sound:
A meanes for our delivery, Turne your clokes
Quoth he, for Pucke is busie in these Oakes;
If ever ye at Bosworth will be found,
Then turne your Cloakes, for this is Fairie ground.
But e're this witchcraft was perform'd, wee meere
A very man, who had not cloven feere,
Though William still of little faith doth doubt,
'Tis Robin or some Spirit walkes about,
Strike him, quoth he, and it will turne to aire,
Crosse your selves thrice, and strike him: Strike that dare
Thought I, for sure this massie Forester,
In blowes will prove the better Conjurer;
But 'twas a gentle keeper, one that knew
Humanity and manners where they grew,
And rode along with us, till he could say,
Loe yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way.
And now when we had sweat, 'twixt Sunne and Sunne;
And eight miles long, to thirty broade had runne,
Wee learn'd the just proportion from hence,
Of the Diameter, and Circumference.
That night made yet amends, our meate, our sheetes,
Were farre above the promise of those streetes,
Those houses that were til'd with straw and mosse,
Promis'd but weake repaire for that dayes losse
Of patience, yet this outside lets us know,
The worthy'st things make not the greatest show.
The shot was easie, and what concernes us more,
The way was so, mine host did ride before,
Mine host was full of Ale, and History,
And on the morrow when he brought us nigh
Where the two Roses joyned, you would suppose,
Chaueer nere writ the Romant of the Rose,
Heare him: see yee yond' woods? there Richard lay
With his whole Army: looke the other way,
And loe where Richmond in a bed of grosse,
Encamp'd himselfe o're night with all his force.
Upon this Hill they met; why, he could tell
The Inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell;
Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
Hee had Authentique notice from the Play;
Which I might guesse by's mustrimg up the Ghosts,
And policies not incident to hosts:
But chiefly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistooke a Player for a King,
For when he would have said, King Richard dy'd,
And call'd a Horse, a Horse, he Burbage cry'd.
How e're his talke, his company pleas'd well,
His Mare went truer then his Chronicle;
And even for Conscience sake unspurr'd, unbeaten,
Brought us sixe miles and turn'd taile to New Eaton;
From thence to Coventrey, where we scarce dine,
Onely our stomachs warm'd with zeale and wine;
And thence as if wee were predestin'd forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, flye to Killingworth.
The keeper of the Castle was from home,
So that halfe mile was lost; yet when wee come
An host receives us there, wee ne're deny him,
My Lord of Lesters man, the Parson by him;
Who had no other proofe to testifie,
He serv'd the Lord, but age and bawdery.
Away for shame, why should three miles divide
Warwicke, and us? they that have horses ride,
A short mile from the Towne, an humble shrine,
At foote of a high rocke consists in signe
Of Guy and his devotions, who there stands,
Ugly and huge, more then a man on's hands,
His Helmet steele, his Gorget Mayle, his Shield
Brasse, made the Chappell fearfull as a field.
And let this answer all the Popes complaints:
Wee set up Gyants, though wee pull downe Saints.
Beyond this in the rode way as wee went,
A pillar stands where this Colossus leant,
Where he would love, and sigh, and for hearts ease
Oft times write verses, some say such as these.

Here will I languish in this silly bower,

While my sweete heart triumphs in yonder Tower.
No other hindrance now, but wee may passe,
Cleare to our Inne; Oh there an hostesse was,
To whom the Castle and the dunne Cowe are
Sights after dinner, shee is morning ware,
Her whole behaviour borrowed was and mixt,
Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and Jigge, her courtsy was an honour,
Her gate as if her neighbours had out-gone her;
Shee was barr'd up in Whale bones that did leese
None of the whales length, for they reach'd her knees;
Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle,
As her Wast stands, just like the new found fiddle,
The favourite Theorbo, truth to tell yee,
Whose neck and throate are deeper then the belly:
Have you seene Monkeys chain'd about the loynes,
Or pottle pots, with rings? just so shee joynes
Her selfe together; a dressing shee doth love,
In a small print below, and text above:
What though her name be King, yet 'tis no treason,
Nor breach of Statute to enquire the reason
Of her branch'd russe, a Cubit every poake
I seeme to wende her, but she strucke the stroake
At our departure, and our worships there
Payd for our titles deare, as any where.
Though Beadles and Professors both have done,
Yet every Inne claimes augmentation:
Please you walke out and see the Castle, come,
The owner saith, it is a Schollers home,
A place of strength, and health, in the same Fort
You would conceive a Castle and a Court,
The Orchards, Gardens, Rivers and the Ayre
May with the Trenches, Rampires, Wals compare,
It seemes no art, no force can intercept it,
As if a Lover built, a Souldier kept it;
Vp to the Tower, though it bee steepe and high,
Wee doe not clime, but walk; and though the eye
Seeme to be weary, yet our feet are still
In the same posture, cousn'd up the Hill,
And thus the workemans art deceives our sence,
Making those rounds of pleasure and defence.
As wee descend the Lord of all this frame,
The Honourable Chancellour to us came,
Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,
But now wee feele a sweeter gale beneath,
The phrase and welcome of this Knight did make
The place more elegant: each word he spake
Was wine and musicke, which he did expose
To us if all our art could censure those:
With him there was a Prelate, by his place
Arch deacon to the Bishop, by his face
A greater man, for that did counterfeit
Lord Abbot of some Covent standing yet,
A corpulent relique, marry and'tis sinne,
Some Puritane gets not that face call'd in;
Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,
That looke for parity in ev'ry thing;
For us let him enjoy all that God sends,
Plenty of flesh, of livings and of friends,

Imagine us here ambling downe the streete,
Circling in Flower, and making both ends meete,
Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complaine
Like harvest folkes of weather and of raine,
And on the feast of Bartholmew we try,
What Revels that Saint keepes at Banbury;

I'th' name of God Amen! first to beginne,
The Altar was converted to an Inne,
Wee lodged in the Chappell by the signe,
But in a banck'rupt Taverne by the wine,
Besides our horses usage makes us thinke,
'Twas still a Church, for they in Coffins drinke,
As if 'twere congruous that the ancient'st lye
Close by those Altars in whose faith they dye;
Now you believe the Church hath great varietie
Of Monuments when Innes have such societie,
But nothing lesse, ther's no inscription there,
But the Church-wardens of the last yeare,
In stead of Saints in windowes, and in wals,
Here buckets hang, and there a Cobweb fals:
Would you not thinke they love antiquity,
Who rush their quire for perpetuity,
Whilst all the other pavements and the floore
Are supplicant to the surveyors power
Of the high wayes, that he would gravell'd keepe
Them, or in winter sure they will bee deepe;
If not for Gods sake, for Master Wheatley's sake,
Levell the Walkes; suppose these pit-fals make
Him spraine a Lecture, or misplace a joynt
In his long prayer, or in his seventeenth point,
Thinke you the Dawes and States can set him right?
Surely this sinne upon your heads will light;
And say, Beloved, what unchristian charme
Is this, you have not left a leg or arme
Of an Apostle? Thinke you if those were whole,
They would arise at last t'assume a soule?
If not, 'tis plaine all the Idolatry
Lyes in your folly, not the imag'ry.
'Tis well, the pinnacles are falne in twaine,
For now the devill should he tempt againe,
Hath no advantage of a place so high:
Fooles! he can dash you from your Gallery,
Where all your medley meetes, and doe compare
Not what you learne, but who was longest there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Like a grand Sallad, Tinkers, what a Towne is't?
The Crosses also like old stumps of Trees,
Or stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees,
Carry no heads above Ground: those which tell,
That Christ hath nere descended into Hell,
But to the Grave, his picture buryed have
In a farre deeper dungeon then a Grave,
That is descended to endure what paines
The Devill can thinke, or such disciples braines.

No more my griefe, in such prophane abuses
Good whips make better verses then the Muses.
Away, and looke not backe, away, while yet
The Church is standing, while the benefit.
Of seeing it remaines so long you shall
Have that rackt downe and call'd Apocryphall,
And in some Barne heare cited many an Author,
Kate Stubs, Anne Ascue, or the Ladies daughter,
Which shall be urg'd for Fathers: stop disdaine,
When Oxford once appeare Satan refraine.
Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out-gone us,
Is not Saint Gileses this, and that Saint Johns?
We are return'd, but just with so much ore
As Rauleigh from his voyage, and no more.