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 |  |
Then with a tuchbox of transalpine tarre,
Turning thrice round, and stirring not a iot,
He threw fiue tunne of red hot purple Snow,
Into a Pigmeis mouth, nine inches square,
Which strait with melancholly mou'd,
Old Bembus Burgomaster of Pickt-hatch,
That plunging through the Sea of Turnebull streete,
He safely did ariue at Smithfield Barres.
Then did the Turnetripes on the Coast of France,
Catch fifteene hundred thousand Grashoppers,
With foureteene Spanish Needles bumbasted,
Poach'd with the Egs of fourscore Flanders Mares,
Mounted vpon the foote of Caucasus,
They whorld the football of conspiring fate,
And brake the shinnes of smugfac'd Muleiber:
With that grim Pluto all in Scarlet blue,
Gaue faire Proserpina a kisse of brasse,
At which all Hell danc'd Trenchmore in a string,
Whilst Acheron, and Termagant did sing.
The Mold-warp all this while in white broth bath'd,
Did Carroll Didoes happinesse in loue,
Vpon a Gridiron made of whiting-mops,
Vnto the tune of Iohn come kisse me now,
At which Auernus Musicke gan to rore,
Inthron'd vpon a seat of three-leau'd grasse,
Whilst all the Hibernian Kernes in multitudes,
Did feast with Shamerags stew'd in Vsquebagh.
At which a banquet made of Monopolies,
Tooke great distaste, because the Pillory
Was hunger-staru'd for want of Villianes eares,
Whom to relieue, there was a Mittimus,
Sent from Tartaria in an Oyster Boate,
At which the King of China was amaz'd,
And with nine graines of Rewbarbe stellified,
As low as to the altitude of shame,
He thrust foure Onions in a Candle-case,
And spoild the meaning of the worlds misdoubt,
Thus with a Dialogue of crimson starch,
I was inflamed with a num-cold fire,
Vpon the tenterhookes of Charlemaine,
The Dogstar howld, the Cat a Mountaine smilde,
And Sisiphus dranke Muskadell and Egges,
In the hornd hoofe of huge Bucephalus,
Time turn'd about, and shew'd me yesterday,
Clad in a Gowne of mourning had I wist,
The motion was almost too late they said,
Whilst sad despaire made all the World starke mad,
They all arose, and I put vp my pen,
It makes no matter, where, why, how, or when.
Turning thrice round, and stirring not a iot,
He threw fiue tunne of red hot purple Snow,
Into a Pigmeis mouth, nine inches square,
Which strait with melancholly mou'd,
Old Bembus Burgomaster of Pickt-hatch,
That plunging through the Sea of Turnebull streete,
He safely did ariue at Smithfield Barres.
Then did the Turnetripes on the Coast of France,
Catch fifteene hundred thousand Grashoppers,
With foureteene Spanish Needles bumbasted,
Poach'd with the Egs of fourscore Flanders Mares,
Mounted vpon the foote of Caucasus,
They whorld the football of conspiring fate,
And brake the shinnes of smugfac'd Muleiber:
With that grim Pluto all in Scarlet blue,
Gaue faire Proserpina a kisse of brasse,
At which all Hell danc'd Trenchmore in a string,
Whilst Acheron, and Termagant did sing.
The Mold-warp all this while in white broth bath'd,
Did Carroll Didoes happinesse in loue,
Vpon a Gridiron made of whiting-mops,
Vnto the tune of Iohn come kisse me now,
At which Auernus Musicke gan to rore,
Inthron'd vpon a seat of three-leau'd grasse,
Whilst all the Hibernian Kernes in multitudes,
Did feast with Shamerags stew'd in Vsquebagh.
At which a banquet made of Monopolies,
Tooke great distaste, because the Pillory
Was hunger-staru'd for want of Villianes eares,
Whom to relieue, there was a Mittimus,
Sent from Tartaria in an Oyster Boate,
5
And with nine graines of Rewbarbe stellified,
As low as to the altitude of shame,
He thrust foure Onions in a Candle-case,
And spoild the meaning of the worlds misdoubt,
Thus with a Dialogue of crimson starch,
I was inflamed with a num-cold fire,
Vpon the tenterhookes of Charlemaine,
The Dogstar howld, the Cat a Mountaine smilde,
And Sisiphus dranke Muskadell and Egges,
In the hornd hoofe of huge Bucephalus,
Time turn'd about, and shew'd me yesterday,
Clad in a Gowne of mourning had I wist,
The motion was almost too late they said,
Whilst sad despaire made all the World starke mad,
They all arose, and I put vp my pen,
It makes no matter, where, why, how, or when.
| All the workes of Iohn Taylor the Water-Poet | |