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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A prodigall Country Gallant, and his new made Maddam.
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 | All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet |  |
A prodigall Country Gallant, and his new made Maddam.
The Argvment.
Taylors fooles, Times bables, and prides Apes,That as a Squirrell ships from tree to tree:
So they like Porteus leape from shapes to shapes,
Like foule swords in gilt scabberds, he and she
Their carkasse pampers, gorgiously bedect,
Whil'st their poore starued soules they both neglect.
Now steps my young gull-gallant into play,
Who (born to land) i'th country scornes to stay,
To liue by wit (thankes Sire) he hath no need,
And if he should be hang'd can scarcely reade.
Drabs, dice, and drinke are all his onely ioyes,
His pockets, and his spurs his gingling boyes,
A Squirrels tayle hangs dangling at his eare,
A badge which many a gull is knowne to weare.
His eyes red-blood-shot, arguing a sod braine,
His dam-him voice set to the roaring straine:
His nose well inlaid with rich jemmes about,
As from a watch-Towre, their heads peeping out,
Attended fitly, (fitting for the age)
With two shagg'd Russians and a pyde-coat Page,
Who beares his boxe, and his Tobacco fils,
With stopper, tongs, and other vtensils.
This Fop, late buried er'e he came vp hither,
His thrift and 's Father in one graue together,
His Country stocke he sold, for that's the fashion,
And to a Farmer gaue it new translation:
His Fathers seruants he thrust out of doore,
Allowes his mother but a pension poore:
Salutes you with an oath at euery word,
Sirha or slaue he liberall doth affoord.
His Father (a good house-keeper) being dead,
He scornes his honest blocke should fit his head:
And though he be not skill'd in Magick Art,
Yet to a Coach he turn'd his Fathers Cart,
Foure Teames of Horses, to foure Flanders Mares,
With which to London he in pomp repaires,
Woo's a she Gallant, and to Wife he takes her:
Then buyes a knighthood, and a maddam makes her.
And yearely they vpon their backes oreweare,
That which oft fed fiue hundred with good cheere.
Whil'st in the Country all good bounty's spilt
His house, as if a Iugler it had built,
For all the Chimneyes where great fires were made,
The smoake at one hole onely is conuey'd:
No times obseru'd nor charitable Lawes,
The poore receiue their answer from the Dawes,
Who in their caying language call it plaine
Mockbegger Manour, for they came in vaine.
They that deuoure what Charitie should giue
Are both at London, there the Cormorants liue,
But so transform'd of late doe what you oan,
You'l hardly know the woman from the man:
There Sir Tim Twirlepipe and his Lady gay,
Doe prodigally spend the time away;
Being both exceeding proud, and scornefull too,
And any thing but what is good they'l doe.
For Incubus and Succubus haue got
A crew of fiends which the old world knew not;
That if our Grand-fathers and Grand-dams should
Rise from the dead, and these mad times behold.
Amazed they halfe madly would admire,
At our fantasticke gestures and attire;
And they would thinke that England in conclusion,
Were a meere bable Babell of confusion.
That Muld-sack for his most vnfashion'd fashions,
Is the fit patterne of their transformations:
And Mary Frith doth teach them modesty,
For she doth keepe one fashion constantly,
And therefore she deserues a Matrons praise,
In these inconstant Moone-like changing dayes.
A witlesse Asse (to please his wiues desire)
Payes for the fewell, for her prides hot fire:
And he and she will wast, consume, and spoyle,
To feed the stinking lamp of pride with oyle:
When with a sword, he gat a knightly name,
With the same blow, his Lady was strucke lame.
For if you marke it she no ground doth tread,
(Since the blow fell) except that she be led:
And Charity is since that time (some say)
In a Carts younger brother borne away.
These are the Cormorants that haue the power
To swallow a Realme, and last themselues deuoure:
And let their gaudy friends thinke what they will,
My Cormorant shall be their better still.
Who (born to land) i'th country scornes to stay,
To liue by wit (thankes Sire) he hath no need,
And if he should be hang'd can scarcely reade.
Drabs, dice, and drinke are all his onely ioyes,
His pockets, and his spurs his gingling boyes,
A Squirrels tayle hangs dangling at his eare,
A badge which many a gull is knowne to weare.
His eyes red-blood-shot, arguing a sod braine,
His dam-him voice set to the roaring straine:
His nose well inlaid with rich jemmes about,
As from a watch-Towre, their heads peeping out,
Attended fitly, (fitting for the age)
With two shagg'd Russians and a pyde-coat Page,
Who beares his boxe, and his Tobacco fils,
With stopper, tongs, and other vtensils.
This Fop, late buried er'e he came vp hither,
His thrift and 's Father in one graue together,
His Country stocke he sold, for that's the fashion,
And to a Farmer gaue it new translation:
His Fathers seruants he thrust out of doore,
Allowes his mother but a pension poore:
Salutes you with an oath at euery word,
Sirha or slaue he liberall doth affoord.
His Father (a good house-keeper) being dead,
He scornes his honest blocke should fit his head:
And though he be not skill'd in Magick Art,
Yet to a Coach he turn'd his Fathers Cart,
Foure Teames of Horses, to foure Flanders Mares,
With which to London he in pomp repaires,
Woo's a she Gallant, and to Wife he takes her:
Then buyes a knighthood, and a maddam makes her.
And yearely they vpon their backes oreweare,
That which oft fed fiue hundred with good cheere.
Whil'st in the Country all good bounty's spilt
His house, as if a Iugler it had built,
For all the Chimneyes where great fires were made,
The smoake at one hole onely is conuey'd:
No times obseru'd nor charitable Lawes,
The poore receiue their answer from the Dawes,
Who in their caying language call it plaine
Mockbegger Manour, for they came in vaine.
They that deuoure what Charitie should giue
Are both at London, there the Cormorants liue,
But so transform'd of late doe what you oan,
You'l hardly know the woman from the man:
There Sir Tim Twirlepipe and his Lady gay,
Doe prodigally spend the time away;
Being both exceeding proud, and scornefull too,
And any thing but what is good they'l doe.
For Incubus and Succubus haue got
A crew of fiends which the old world knew not;
That if our Grand-fathers and Grand-dams should
Rise from the dead, and these mad times behold.
Amazed they halfe madly would admire,
At our fantasticke gestures and attire;
And they would thinke that England in conclusion,
Were a meere bable Babell of confusion.
That Muld-sack for his most vnfashion'd fashions,
Is the fit patterne of their transformations:
And Mary Frith doth teach them modesty,
For she doth keepe one fashion constantly,
And therefore she deserues a Matrons praise,
In these inconstant Moone-like changing dayes.
A witlesse Asse (to please his wiues desire)
Payes for the fewell, for her prides hot fire:
And he and she will wast, consume, and spoyle,
To feed the stinking lamp of pride with oyle:
When with a sword, he gat a knightly name,
With the same blow, his Lady was strucke lame.
For if you marke it she no ground doth tread,
(Since the blow fell) except that she be led:
And Charity is since that time (some say)
In a Carts younger brother borne away.
These are the Cormorants that haue the power
To swallow a Realme, and last themselues deuoure:
And let their gaudy friends thinke what they will,
My Cormorant shall be their better still.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |