University of Virginia Library

[TAYLORS REVENGE.]

TAYLORS REVENGE: OR, The Rimer William Fennor, firkt, ferrited, and finely fetcht ouer the Coales.

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William Fennor. Anagramma. NV Villany For me; OR, Forme NV Villany.

To William Fennor.

Come Sirrha; Rascall, off your clothes Sr, strip,
For my Satyrrick whip shall make you skip:
Th'adst better to haue dealt with all the Deuils,
They could not plague thee with so many euils.
Nay come man, neuer whine, or crooch, or kneele,
My heart cannot one iot of pitty feele,
I'haue squeez'd the Gall from out the Lernean snake,
With which, Reuengefull Inke I meane to make,
Which I with Aqua-fortis will commix,
Yblended with the lothsome Lake of Stix,

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And with that Marrow-eating hatefull Inke
I'll make thee (more then any Aiax) stinke,
A Scritch-owles quill shall be my fatall pen,
That shall emblaze thee basest slaue of men.
So that when as the pur-blind world shall see
How vildly thou hast plaid the Rogue with mee,
They shall perceiue I wrong them not for pelfe,
And thou shalt (like a Rascall) hang thy selfe.
What damned Villaine would forsweare & sweare
As thou didst, 'gainst my challenge to appeare,
To answer me at Hope, vpon the stage,
And thereupon, my word I did ingage,
And to the world did publish printed Bills,
With promise that we both would shew our skills.
And then your Rogue-ship durst not shew your face,
But ran away, and left me in disgrace.
To thee, ten shillings I for earnest gaue
To bind thee, that thou shouldst not play the Knaue.
Curre, hadst thou no mans Credit to betray
But mine, or couldst thou find no other way,
To Sharke, or Shift, or Cony-catch for mony,
But to make me thy Asse, thy Foole, thy Cony?
Could not thy Squire and thee, (a brace of Varlots)
Rim'd, Fool'd, & Pip'd, 'mongst pocky Whores & Harlots,
For two-pence in some drunken Bawdy-booth
To please thy Doxy-dells sweet stinking tooth,
Wheras thou mightst (as thou hast often done)
Some scraps and broken beere, for wages wone,
Which to maintaine thy state had been some meanes
Amongst thy fellowes, Rascalls, Rogues, & Queanes.
Thou scuruy squint-eyd brazen-fac'd Baboon,
Thou dam'd Stigmaticall foule Pantaloone,
Thou Tauerne, Alehouse, Whorehouse, Gig of time,
That for a groat wilt amongst Tinkers rime.
I'll hale from Hell grim visag'd Nemesis,
Whom I will Scull o'r siluer Thamesis,
Which to and fro, shall still torment and towze thee.
And none but Runnagates (like thee) shall howze thee.
Thine owne tongue (trumpet like) each where proclaimes
Thy selfe a seruant to my Soueraigne Iames,
When as thy seruice to the King is such
As Athiests vnto God, and scarce to much.
It may bee (graclesse) thou hast graced bin,
And in the Presence didst admittance win,
Where some stolne rimes, and some things of thine owne,
To please the eares of Greatnesse thou hast showne.
Which (at the first hath wonne thee some applawse,
Although perhaps not worth three barly strawes.
And you forsooth, must presently giue out
Amongst your kitchingstuffe whor-hedge bird rout,
What Noble-man your scuruinesse did bring
Into the Court, and how our Gracious King,
(As on a man most worthy to bestow it)
Intitled you his Highnesse Riming-Poet.
How dares thy ouerweening saucy tongue,
Presume to doe a Poets name that wrong?
How darst thou (being altogether vile)
Attribute to thy selfe that Sacred stile?
Shall that rare Art (which gods and men admire,
Polluted be by such a scuruie Squire?
Shall Heau'n-bred Poesie that so long hath lasted,
With thy contagious breath be Bussard-blasted?
Then Homer from thy Toomb, with speed returne,
And Marro rouze thee from thy peacefull Vrne.
Braue Naso to the world againe retire,
And repossesse that rare Promothean fire,
Which erst inspir'd you, heere you may behold,
The face of Impudency ouer-bold,
That dares put on that sweet Poetique name,
Which hath eterniz'd your Immortall fame.
Reuenge you Muses, vp, awake, awake,
Or euer sinke to the Lethean Lake.
And you braue Moderne Poets, whose sweet lines,
All Heau'nly, earthly, Harmony combines,
Can you, O can your senses be stupidious,
And see your selues abused thus perfidious!
Oh if the case were mine, as it is yours,
I would raine vengeance in reuengefull showres,
Which furious storme for euer should disperse,
And dash to pieces these base Groomes in verse.
An Asse in cloth of gold, is but an Asse,
And Riming-Rascalls may for Poets passe,
Amongst mis-iudging, and illiterate mynds,
But iudgement knowes to vse them in their kinds.
My selfe knowes how (sometimes) a verse to frame,
Yet dare I not put on a Poets name,
And I dare write with thee at any time
For what thou darst, in either Prose or Rime,
For thou of Poesie art the very scum
Of Riff-raff-Rubish wit, the totall summe,
The lothsome Glaunders of all base abuse,
The onely Filch-line of each labring Muse,
The Knaue, the Asse, the Coxcomb and the Foole,
The scorne of Poets, and true wits Close-stoole.
But all your Tauerne and your Alehouse prate.
Is how your entertainment was in State,
With this great Lord, and that embrodered Knight,
With that faire Countesse, and that Lady bright,
Though where thou come thou shift, & lye, & lurch,
As welcome as a Dog into a Church.
Dost thinke the King and's Courtiers doth not see,
And know that nothing good can come from thee?
Can Swine yeeld sweet perfumes,

can Swans breed Crowes?
Can flatt'ring Rogues haue but dissembling showes?
Can health be hidden in the plague or pox?
Can men take pride in fetters, bonds or stocks?
And more vnpossible then are all these,
It is that thou shouldst any wise man please,
Except it be a flash, a sparke, a spurt,
Soon in, soone out, and then as sweet as durt,
Or like a candle's snuffe, for pleasing scent,
Thou lean'st them deeply pleasd with discontent,

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For thou (like stinking Fish) art growne so stale,
A whole daies Rime not worth a pot of Ale.
But shortly I doe hope to see braue sport,
To haue thee soundly whip'd from out the Court:
For well I know my King will not allow
His house to harbour such a Rogue as thou.
I vow to God, my Ink-horne I'll not shut,
Or sleepe shall not mine eyes together put,
Before each night I write some scourging verse,
That in reuenge thy Iadish heart shall pierce.
For I, whose credit ne'r before was tainted,
Nor euer was with cheating tricks acquainted,
To be by thee thus basely vsde and crost,
And in the world my reputation lost,
And all by thee, that merit'st nought but banging,
For sure I thinke, thou'lt ne'r be worth the hanging.
Yet rather then thou shouldst a hanging want,
I'de trusse thee vp for naught, were Hangmen scant,
Nay I would doe it freely, and for nothing,
And giue thy Wife againe my fee and cloathing:
Which courtesie of mine, no doubt, would moue
The creatures kindnesse to requite my loue.
On her thou laid'st the fault: thou said'st that shee
Did force thee basely runne away from mee.
Thou Dolt, thou Dunce, more blockish then a Mule,
None but a Wittall giues his wife the rule.
No, 'twas thy Coward heart, ful fraught with feare,
'Twas nothing else that made thee not appeare.
Hadst thou the conquest got, I had not car'd,
So thou vnto thy word hadst had regard,
Then sure the Players had not playd a play,
But thou or I had borne away the day.
And now to giue the world a little tast
Of the strange brunts and puzzles that I past,
I will not write a word shall be vntrue,
That men may know, thou vsde me like a Iew,
And that I doe not raile on thee so sore,
But that my wrongs doe vrge me to doe more.
The house was fil'd with Newters, Foes, & Friends,
And euery one their money frankly spends.
But when I saw the day away did fade,
And thy look'd-for appearance was not made,
I then stept out, their angers to appease,
But they all raging, like tempestuous Seas:
Cry'd out, their expectations were defeated,
And how they all were cony-catch'd and cheated:
Some laught, some swore, some star'd & stamp'd and curst,
And in confused humors all out burst.
I (as I could) did stand the desp'rate shock,
And bid the brunt of many dang'rous knock.
For now the stinkards, in their irefull wraths
Bepelted me with Lome, with Stones, and Laths,
One madly sits like bottle Ale, and hisses,
Another throwes a stone, and 'cause he misses,
He yawnes and bawles, and cryes Away, away:
Another cryes out, Iohn, begin the Play.
I thinke this Babel of confused action
Would sure haue made thee stink with feares distraction,
One sweares and stormes, another laughs & smiles,
Another madly would pluck off the tiles.
Some runne to'th doore to get againe their coyne,
And some doe shift, and some againe purloine.
One valiantly stept out vpon the Stage,
And would teare downe the hangings in his rage.
(God grant hee may haue hanging at his end,
That with me for the hangings did contend.)
Such clapping, hissing, swearing, stamping, smiling,
Applauding, scorning, liking, and reuiling,
Did more torment mee then a Purgatorie:
Yet I (in scorne of windie pomp stage glory)
Did stand it out, vnconquer'd, vnsubdude,
Despight the Hydra-headed multitude.
Now goodman Dog, a halter catch your muzzell,
Your not appearance brought me in this puzzell,
But I (to giue the Audience some content)
Began to act what I before had ment:
And first I plaid a maundering Roguish creature,
(A part thou couldst haue acted well by nature)
Which act did passe, and please, and fild their iawes
With wrinkled laughter, and with good applause.
Then came the players, and they play'd an act,
Which greatly from my action did detract.
For 'tis not possible for any one
To play against a company alone,
And such a company (I'll boldly say)
That better (nor the like) e'r play'd a Play.
In briefe, the Play my action did eclips,
And in a manner seal'd vp both my lips.
Suppose it were a black Cimmerian night,
And that some 12 or 16 Torches light
Should make night seeme an artificiall day,
And then suppose, these Torches past away,
Whilst dismall darknesse straight resumes the place,
Then after all comes in with glimm'ring pace
A silly Taper. How would that alone
Shew when the flaming Torches all were gone?
Eu'n so seem'd I, amidst the guarded troope
Of gold-lac'd Actors, yet all could not droope
My fixed mind, for where true courage roots,
The Prouerb sayes, Once ouer shooes, o'r boots.
'Twere easier to subdue wilde Beares or Bores,
Or row to High-gate with a paire of Oares,
Or to make thee an vpright honest man,
(Which sore God will not, nor the Diuell can)
'Twere lesser labour to blow downe Pauls-steeple,
Then to appease, or please the raging people.
The Play made me as sweet in their opinions,
As Tripes well fry'd in Tarr, or Egges with Onions.
I, like a Beare vnto the stake was tide,
And what they said, or did, I must abide.
A pox vpon him for a Rogue, sayes one,
And with that word he throwes at me a stone,

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A second my estate doth seeme to pitty,
And saies my action's good, my speeches witty.
A third doth screw his chaps awry, and mew,
His selfe conceited wisdome so to shew.
Thus doth the Third, the Fourth, the Fift and Six
Most Galliemaufrey-like their humors mix.
Such Motley, Medley, Linsey-Woolsey speeches
Would sure haue made thee vilifie thy breeches.
What I endur'd vpon that earthly hell,
My tongue or pen cannot describe it well.
And rather then Ile doe the like once more,
I would be married to an arrant Whore.
And that's a plague I could wish well to thee:
For it would worser then a hanging bee.
And let me say my best in my excuse,
The Audience all were wrong'd with great abuse,
Great cause they had to take it in offence,
To come from their affaires with such expence
By Land and Water, and then at the play
So extraordinarily to pay,
And when the thing should bee that they expected,
Then nothing to their likings was effected.
Their mirth to madnes, liking turn'd to lothing,
For when all came to all, all came to nothing.
Thus hast thou had a little slender taste
Of my designes, and how I was disgrac'd,
For which I am beholding to you, Sir,
For had you come, there had beene no such stir,
Not cause the people long'd thy selfe to see,
But that they look'd thou shouldst disgraced bee.
To see vs two the people did repaire,
And not to see or heare or play or Player.
Why what a faithlesse Rascall art thou then?
Dar'st thou to looke vpon me once agen?
Which if thou dost, were't not for feare of Lawes,
I'de stab my Dagger thorow both thy iawes.
But much I scorne my fingers should be foule
With beating such a durty dunghill-Owle.
But I'll rib-roast thee, and bum-bast thee still
With my enraged Muse, and angry Quill.
And so I leaue thy carkas and apparell
Vnto the Hangman, who shall end our quarrell.
My full opinion of thee sure is this,
In no Church-booke thy name recorded is,
But that thou wast begotten in some ditch,
Betwixt a Tinker and a Maundring Witch,
And sure thy birth did equall thy begetting,
I thinke thy Mother in the Sun-shine sitting,
Basking her selfe close to some hedge of Thorne,
And so without a Midwife thou wast borne.
And there the Sunne with his illustrous light
Screwd quite awry the Windowes of thy sight.
Then afterwards the Matrone thought it meet
To wrap thee vp within some hedge-stolne sheet,
And making thee her sweet vnchristian packe,
Some six or seu'n yeere bare thee on her backe,
Instructing thee in the braue Canting tong,
And how in Pedlers French to sing a song,
And Rime for Butter-milke, for Curds and Whay,
And in a Barne at night thy bones to lay.
This I doe thinke of thee, I'll not say so,
Thou know'st it best if it be so or no.
This (by thine owne report) some few yeeres since
Thou Rim'st at Grauesend for some fourteene pence
I the street, from seuenteene people vnrespected,
This Graund Collection, iustly was collected.
As I doe hope for blisse, I hate thee not
For any goods or credit thou hast got
In Court or Citty. But thy praise I'll sing,
If any way thou didst delight the King.
So many tedious cares are daily throwne
Vpon the Royall-head that weares a Crowne,
That into action I would melt my spright,
Thereby to giue my Sou'raigne some delight.
For such things I doe loue and wish thee well,
But that I thinke no such in thee doe dwell.
Therefore I hate thee, as thou dost behaue
Thy selfe like to a cooz'ning paltry Knaue.
What heere I write, vpon thee I'll make good,
And in the hazzard I'll engage my bloud.
But as I said before, againe I'll say,
I scorne on such a Rascall, hands to lay,
For the old prouerb is Authenticall,
(Who touches pitch shall be defilde withall.)
Thou hast a pate can forge a Mint of lies,
Else how is't possible thou couldst deuise
At once to flap me and the world i'th mouth,
That thou wast rid, East, West, and North, & South?
That day thou shouldst haue met me on the Stage
Thou wentst three waies at once on pilgrimage,
Thou sent'st me word tho' wast sent for to the Court,
Thy wife said, thou with speed must make resort
To fetch her portion out of Warwick-shire,
And the day after 'twas my chance to heare,
How thou for begging of a Fellons pardon,
Wast rid downe into Kent to fetch thy guerdon.
So that the portion that thou wentst to fet,
Thou from the Gallowes (thy best friend) didst get.
But though thou rob the Gallowes of his fee,
It will (at last) for principall catch thee.
Where (for thou guld'st me at the Hope) I hope
Thou wilt conclude thy rogu'ry in a Rope,
Three Trees, two Rampant, and the other Crossant,
One halter Pendant, and a ladder Passant,
In a field Azure, (clouded like the Skye)
Because 'twixt Earth and Ayre I hope thou'lt dye.
These Armes for thee, my muse hath Heraldiz'd,
And to exalt thee, them shee hath deuisde.
Then when thou bidst the world thy last good-night
Squint vpward, and cry, Gallowes, claime thy right.
To whose protection, thy estate I tender,
And all thy Rights and Titles I surrender,

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Thy Carkas and thy Manners (that are euill)
To Tyburne, Hangman, and (thy sire) the Deuill.

To the Reader.

To my Friends.

To my despightfull Foes.