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 |  |
Thus may a Brownists zealous ruffe in print
Be turn'd to Paper, and a play writ in't.
Or verses of a May pole, or at last
Iniunctions for some stomacke hating Fast.
And truely 'twere prophane and great abuse,
To turne the brethrene linnen to such vse,
As to make Paper on't to beare a song,
Or Print the Superstitious Latine tongue,
Apocrypha, or Ember-weekes, or Lent,
No holy brother surely will consent
To such Idolatry, his spirit and zeale
Will rather trouble Church, and common-weale.
He hates the Fathers workes, and had much rather
To be a bastard, then to haue a Father.
His owne interpretation he'll affoord
According to the letter of the word,
Tropes, Allegories, Types, similitudes,
Or Figures, that some mysticke sense includes.
His humour can the meaning so vnfold,
In other fashions then the Fathers could:
For he (dogmatically) doth know more
Then all the learned Doctors knew before.
All reuerend Ceremonies he'l oppose,
He can make an Organ of his nose,
And spin his speech with such sincerity,
As if his bridge were falne in verity.
The Cope and Surplesse he cannot abide,
Against the corner-Cap he out hath cride,
And calls them weeds of Superstition,
And liueries of the whore of Babylon.
The Crosses blessing he esteemes a curse,
The Ring in marriage, out vpon't 'tis worse.
And for his kneeling at the Sacrament,
In sooth he'le rather suffer banishment,
And goe to Amsterdamd, and liue and dye
E're he'l commit so much Idolatry.
He takes it for an outward Seale or Signe,
A little consecrated bread and wine,
And though it from his blessed Sauiour come
His manners takes it sitting on his bum.
The Spirit still directs him how to pray,
Nor will he dresse his meat the Sabbath day,
Which doth a mighty mysterie vnfold,
His zeale is hot, although his meat be cold,
Suppose his Cat on Sunday kill a Rat,
She on the Munday must be hang'd for that.
His faith keepes a continuall Holy day,
Himselfe doth labour to keepe it at play:
For he is read and deeply vnderstood
That if his faith should worke 'twould doe no good,
A fine cleane fingerd faith must saue alone,
Good workes are needlesse, therefore he'l do none.
Yet patience doth his spirit so much inspire,
He'l not correct a Seruant in his ire,
But when the spirit his hot furie layes.
Hee congregates his folkes, and thus he sayes:
Be turn'd to Paper, and a play writ in't.
Or verses of a May pole, or at last
Iniunctions for some stomacke hating Fast.
And truely 'twere prophane and great abuse,
To turne the brethrene linnen to such vse,
As to make Paper on't to beare a song,
Or Print the Superstitious Latine tongue,
Apocrypha, or Ember-weekes, or Lent,
No holy brother surely will consent
To such Idolatry, his spirit and zeale
Will rather trouble Church, and common-weale.
He hates the Fathers workes, and had much rather
To be a bastard, then to haue a Father.
His owne interpretation he'll affoord
According to the letter of the word,
Tropes, Allegories, Types, similitudes,
Or Figures, that some mysticke sense includes.
His humour can the meaning so vnfold,
In other fashions then the Fathers could:
For he (dogmatically) doth know more
Then all the learned Doctors knew before.
All reuerend Ceremonies he'l oppose,
He can make an Organ of his nose,
And spin his speech with such sincerity,
As if his bridge were falne in verity.
The Cope and Surplesse he cannot abide,
Against the corner-Cap he out hath cride,
And calls them weeds of Superstition,
And liueries of the whore of Babylon.
The Crosses blessing he esteemes a curse,
The Ring in marriage, out vpon't 'tis worse.
And for his kneeling at the Sacrament,
In sooth he'le rather suffer banishment,
And goe to Amsterdamd, and liue and dye
E're he'l commit so much Idolatry.
He takes it for an outward Seale or Signe,
A little consecrated bread and wine,
And though it from his blessed Sauiour come
His manners takes it sitting on his bum.
The Spirit still directs him how to pray,
Nor will he dresse his meat the Sabbath day,
Which doth a mighty mysterie vnfold,
His zeale is hot, although his meat be cold,
Suppose his Cat on Sunday kill a Rat,
She on the Munday must be hang'd for that.
His faith keepes a continuall Holy day,
Himselfe doth labour to keepe it at play:
For he is read and deeply vnderstood
That if his faith should worke 'twould doe no good,
A fine cleane fingerd faith must saue alone,
Good workes are needlesse, therefore he'l do none.
Yet patience doth his spirit so much inspire,
He'l not correct a Seruant in his ire,
But when the spirit his hot furie layes.
Hee congregates his folkes, and thus he sayes:
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |