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 |  |
A Country Yeoman.
The Argvment.
Here Dauy Dicker comes, God speed the Plough,Whose Sonne's a Gentleman, and hunts and hawkes:
His Farme good cloathes and seeding will allow,
And whatso'ere of him the Country talkes,
His Sonne's in silkes with feather in his head,
Untill a Begger bring a Foole to bed.
The
Romane Histories doe true relate,
How Dioclesian chang'd his Emp'rors state,
To liue in quiet in a Country Farme,
Out of the reach of treasons dangerous arme.
Then was a Færmer like a lab'ring Ant,
And not a Land deuouring Cormorant.
For if a Gentle man hath Land to let,
He'l haue it, at what price so'ere 'tis set,
And bids, and ouer bids, and will giue more.
Then any man could make of it before:
Offers the Landlord more then he would craue,
And buyes it, though he neither get nor saue.
And whereas Gentlemen their Land would let,
At rates that tenants might both saue and get,
This Cormorant will giue his Landlord more,
Then he would aske, in hope that from the poore
He may extort it double by the rate,
Which he will sell his corne and cattle at.
At pining famine he will ne're repine,
'Tis plenty makes this Cormorant to whine,
To hoard vp corne with many a bitter ban,
From widowes, Orphanes, and the lab'ring man,
He prayes for raine in haruest, night and day,
To rot and to consume the graine and hay:
That so his mowes and reeks, and stacks that mould,
At his owne price he may translate to gold.
But if a plenty come, this rauening thiefe
Torments & sometimes hangs himselfe with griefe.
And all this raking toyle, and carke and care,
Is for his clownish first borne Sonne and heyre,
Who must be gentled by his ill got pelfe,
Though he to get it, got the diuell himselfe.
And whil'st the Fathers bones a rotting lye,
His Sonne his cursed wealth, accurst lets flye,
In whores, drinke, gaming, and in reuell coyle,
The whil'st his fathers Soule in flames doth broyle.
And when the Father on the earth did liue,
To his Sonnes fancie he such way did giue,
For at no season he the plow must hold,
The Summer was too hot, the Winter cold,
He robs his mother of her Butter pence.
Within the Alehouse serues him for expence.
And so like Coles.dog the vntutor'd mome,
Must neither goe to Church nor bide at home.
For he his life another way must frame,
To Hauke, to hunt, abusing the Kings game,
Some Nobleman or Gentleman that's neere,
At a cheape rate to steale what they call deere.
When if a poore man (his great want to serue)
Whose wife and children ready are to starue,
If he but steale a sheepe from out the fold,
The chuffe would hang him for it if he could.
For almes he neuer read the word releeue,
He knowes to get, but neuer knowes to giue,
And whatso'ere he be that doth liue thus.
Is a worse Cormorant then my Æsacus.
How Dioclesian chang'd his Emp'rors state,
To liue in quiet in a Country Farme,
Out of the reach of treasons dangerous arme.
12
And not a Land deuouring Cormorant.
For if a Gentle man hath Land to let,
He'l haue it, at what price so'ere 'tis set,
And bids, and ouer bids, and will giue more.
Then any man could make of it before:
Offers the Landlord more then he would craue,
And buyes it, though he neither get nor saue.
And whereas Gentlemen their Land would let,
At rates that tenants might both saue and get,
This Cormorant will giue his Landlord more,
Then he would aske, in hope that from the poore
He may extort it double by the rate,
Which he will sell his corne and cattle at.
At pining famine he will ne're repine,
'Tis plenty makes this Cormorant to whine,
To hoard vp corne with many a bitter ban,
From widowes, Orphanes, and the lab'ring man,
He prayes for raine in haruest, night and day,
To rot and to consume the graine and hay:
That so his mowes and reeks, and stacks that mould,
At his owne price he may translate to gold.
But if a plenty come, this rauening thiefe
Torments & sometimes hangs himselfe with griefe.
And all this raking toyle, and carke and care,
Is for his clownish first borne Sonne and heyre,
Who must be gentled by his ill got pelfe,
Though he to get it, got the diuell himselfe.
And whil'st the Fathers bones a rotting lye,
His Sonne his cursed wealth, accurst lets flye,
In whores, drinke, gaming, and in reuell coyle,
The whil'st his fathers Soule in flames doth broyle.
And when the Father on the earth did liue,
To his Sonnes fancie he such way did giue,
For at no season he the plow must hold,
The Summer was too hot, the Winter cold,
He robs his mother of her Butter pence.
Within the Alehouse serues him for expence.
And so like Coles.dog the vntutor'd mome,
Must neither goe to Church nor bide at home.
For he his life another way must frame,
To Hauke, to hunt, abusing the Kings game,
Some Nobleman or Gentleman that's neere,
At a cheape rate to steale what they call deere.
When if a poore man (his great want to serue)
Whose wife and children ready are to starue,
If he but steale a sheepe from out the fold,
The chuffe would hang him for it if he could.
For almes he neuer read the word releeue,
He knowes to get, but neuer knowes to giue,
And whatso'ere he be that doth liue thus.
Is a worse Cormorant then my Æsacus.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |