University of Virginia Library

Errata, or Faults to the Reader.

Faults, but not faults escap'd, I would they were,
If they were faults escap'd, they were not here:
But heere they are, in many a page and line,
Men may perceiue the Printers faults, or mine.
And since my faults are heere in prison fast,
And on record (in print) are like to last,
Since the Correcters let them passe the Presse,
And my occasions mix'd with sicknesses,
And that foure Printers dwelling farre asunder,
Did print this booke, pray make the faults no wonder.
I will confesse my faults are scap'd indeed,
If they escape mens Censure when they read.
No Garden is so cleare, but weedes are in't,
All is not Gold that's coined in the Mint;
The Rose hath prickles, and the spots of sinne,
Oft takes the fairest features for their Inne.
Below the Moone no full perfection is,
And alwaies some of vs are all amisse.
Then in your reading mend each mis-plac'd letter,
And by your iudgement make bad words sound better.
Where you may hurt, heale; where you can afflict,
There helpe and cure, or else be not too strict.
Looke through your fingers, wink, conniue at mee,
And (as you meet with faults) see, and not see.
Thus must my faults escape, (or escape neuer,)
For which, good Readers, I am yours for euer.

In laudem Authoris.

Thou hast no learning, yet with learned skill
Thou dost write well, although thy meanes be ill.
And if I could, I would thy merits raise,
And crowne thy temples with immortall Bayes.

To the Author, Iohn Taylor.

Wast euer keowne to any time before,
That so much skill in Poesie could be,
Th'attendant to a Skull, or painefull oare?
Thou liu'st in water, but the fire in thee;
That mounting Element, that made thee chuse,
To court Vrania, the diuinest Muse.
Row on: to watermen did neuer blow
A gale so good, none so much goodnesse know.

To my worthy and well-deseruing friend, our wel-known hydropoet, Iohn Taylor.

Some till their throats ake cry alowd and hollo
To aucupate great fauors from Apollo.
One Bacchus and some other Venus vrges,
To blesse their brain-brats. Those cœrulean surges,
Gyrdling the earth, emball thy nerues, and season
Those animall parts, quiek Organs of mans reason.
This Nimph-adored fountaine farre excells,
Aganipe Aon; all that Bubulkes wells.
These daunst about thy Quinbro-boate to kisse thee,
And often since roare out because they misse thee.
These wyned with loue-sicke Thame the banks o'rswel
To visit their ingenious darlings Cell.
Blue Neptunes salt tempred with Thames sweet water,
Make thee both tart and pleasing. What theater
Of late; could Cinthius, halfe staru'd mists perswade
T' applaud; nay not to hisse at what they made?
Then call on Neptune still; let Delos sinke
Or swimme; for thee let Phœbus looke, or winke
VVhilst his poore Priests grow mad with ill successe:
That still the more they write they please the lesse.
Thine Amphitritean Muse growes more arrident,
And Phœbus tripos, stoopes to Neptunes trident.

To his friend the Author.

In sport I hitherto haue told thy same,
But now thy Muse doth merit greater Name.
Soares high to Heau'n, from earth and water flies,
And leauing baser matters, mounts the skies.
Where hidden knowledge, she doth sweetly sing,
Carelesse of each inferiour common thing.
Oh that my Soule could follow her in this,
To shun fowle sin, and seeke eternall blisse!
Her strength growes great, and may God euer send,
Me to amend my faults, as she doth mend.

To my honest friend, Iohn Taylor.

What shall I say, kind Friend, to let thee know
How worthily I doe this worke esteeme?
Whereof I thinke I cannot too much deeme,
From which I find a world of wit doth flow.
The poore vnpollisht praise I can bestow
Vpon this well deseruing worke of thine,
Which heere I freely offer at thy Shrine,
Is like a Taper, when the Sunne doth showe,
Or bellowes helpe for Eol's breath to blow:
For thou as much hast soard beyond the straine,
Whereto our common Muses doe attaine:
As Cintyhaes light exceeds the wormes that glow.
And were my Muse reple at with learned phrase,
The world should know thy work deserueth praise.

To the deseruing author, Iohn Taylor.

It is disputed much among the wise,
If that there be a water in the skyes:
If there be one: no Water-man before,
Was euer knowne to row in't with his Oare.
If none; such is thy high surmounting pen,
It soares aboue the straine of Watermen:
Whether there be or no, seeke farre and neere,
Th'art matchlesse sure in this our hemispheere.

To my friend Iohn Taylor.

Row on (good Water-man) and looke back still,
(Thus as thou dost) vpon the Muses Hill,
To guide thee in thy course: Thy Boate's a sphære
Where thine Vrania moues diuinely-cleare.
Well hast thou pli'd and (with thy learned Oare)
Cut through a Riner, to a nobler shore,
Then euer any landed-at. Thy saile,
(Made all of clowdes) swels with a prosp'rous gale.
Some say, there is a Ferriman of Hell,
The Ferriman of Heau'n, I now know well,
And that's thy selfe, transporting soules to Blisse.
Vrania sits at Helme and Pilot is;
For Thames, thou hast the lactea via found,
Be thou with baies (as that with stars is) crownd.

[These Bookes in number sixty three are heere]

These Bookes in number sixty three are heere,
Bound in one Volume, scattred here and there,
They stand not thus in order in the booke;
But any man may finde them, that will looke.

Taylors VRANIA.