University of Virginia Library

A Reply as true as Steele, To a Rusty, Rayling, Ridiculous, Lying Libell; which was lately written by an impudent unsoder'd Ironmonger and called by the name of An Answer to a foolish Pamphlet Entituled, A Swarme of Sectaries and Schismatiques.

VVhat Dogs Infernall Snaps and Snarleth thus?
(Begot by Tripleheaded Cerberus)
No 'tis a pretty Puppy, with one head,
A Red haird whelpe, that can both Write and Read,
Sprung from the devill and a mad Dun Cow,
Nurse in a Dunghill where he suck'd a Sowe,
This Amsterdam'd cur, hath strange Libels flirted
And much fowle Inke besquitterid and Besquirted
That everywhere his Roguish Pamphlets flies
That England's all embrodred o're with lies.
And late this cankerd viperous hownd of hell
His toadlike mallice did against me swell,
And did a poysnous lying libell frame
Against me, but durst never set his Name.
An Annagram Denominotes him well
Three scurvey words, a KNAV, REVILER, HEL,

Look into the tenth line following and there in Capital letters you shall finde that these three wicked words are his Anagram.

These shew his name, his nature and his end
(Except before hee's hang'd he meanes to mend.)
For who is fitter for black hell to have
Then a reviler and a railing Knave,
And not to hold you in suspence much longer
This fellow is a Quondam Iron-monger
And now his coppies Chaung'd, crackd Like a shell
In Gracious street, doth Graceles libells sell.
If I would be an Idle babling talker
Perhaps I then should name him HENRIE WALLKER.
But 'tis no matter, I'le awhile forbeare
Hee'l hang himself if I should name him heere;
He in his title page, six times sets down
My name, but never once, durst write his own
And though his libell be one Sheete (no more)
And Prose and Verse the lines are but eightscore,
Yet fifty of these Roguish lines (pray know it)
He stole from FENNER, the dead Rimeing Poet.
And yet the mungrill Dogg's wits was to seeke
That he was faine to pumpe Above a weeke.
To answer me, but this reply was soon
unwrit and writ in halfe an Afternon.
And what sweet stuffe his Giant muse brought forth
Those that will reade may quickly know the worth.
He layes about him bravely with his Inke
And taxes me with drabs and to much drinke
But those that know me well, do know me so
That I to both those vices am a foe,
But were I given to the veneriall crime
I would have seen his wife before this time,
If he be Iellious, he deserves for that
To wear a faire Ox-feather in his Hat;

The Rascall sayes that I was invited to dinner, at the Tower it is knowe I was a Servant there 14 yeeres.

Th'Archbishop nor his men did me invite
Nor for a meal did I the book endite
For 'tis to sundry gentlemen well knowne
That I did write that booke three yeares agone.
Let trencher knaves (like Walker) Scrape for scrapps
And with the snuffes of Greatmen Rince their chappes,
No Bishops not in England living be
That I have cause to thanke for gifts to me.
He that takes part with Rome, let him have Hell
And there is Roome enough, there let him dwell:
But though those lines may shew sincerity
Yet they are far from Christian charity,)
I hate no person, (Layman or Divine)
Nor 'Gainst misguided soules do I repine,
I hate mens crimes, no do I love mine own,
(And charity begins at home 'tis knowne)
As men transgresse, so punish the offender
As men are men so men should pitty tender;
This shallow pated foole that railes and raves,
I pitty him and all his brother knaves
Sure if they had wit they would descry
Good manners must not be Idolatry,
That Popery is not railes, though too much railing
Hath shewed Romes mingle mangle wrangling failing.
Thou filthy fellow, dost thou make no ods
Between a Stable and a House of Gods,
I thinke the devill feares that doomes day's neere
And therefore he those adverse Sects doth reare
And Buzzeth sundry formes of strange Religions
That he may catch the most of them like Widgeons;
For what a lamentable case is this
When such mad fooles (whom wisemen scorne and hisse)
Dares take upon them to reforme and teache
Various Relligions, all beyond their reach.
And this rare Rascall, (in his zeale discreet)
Went lately to the Owle that's in Kings street
There was his Bible paund (for what I pray)
For one quarte of Metheglin left to pay.
Was not this Rogue rap'd with some spright devine
To pawne Gods word for poor Welch Muscadine.
He talkes of whipping, and of Iayles to me
Of gallowses, and things called Pillorie,
And such od whimsyes, which the Gentleman
Doth hammer in his Perricranian,
Yet late Greatmen of Government thought fit
To clap him in the fleet with all his wit,
And being thence releas'd, he afterward
Was kept in Wood-street-Counter with good guard
For why it vvas a matter most unmeet
His precisous Pamphlets should bestrow the street
And make some old men, that for got almost
To ride a Horse, to ride each Pissing Poste,
And all his patience could not be content
To stay for order from the Parliament,
I hold it manners to forbear a while
Till that High Court our wrongs can reconcile
To wait with patience, and with prayers desire
That God that Blessed Senate would inspire
With Grace, true wisdom, courage, saving health
For Heavens Great-service, King and common wealth.
But Master Walker and such Knaves as he
To wait their leasures cannot quiet be:
But they must Libell raile, and keep a Rut,
And (as they please their own wayes out to cut,
And like unmannag'd wild untoward Iades
Lay by their laudable and lawfull Trades,
And sawcily to preach, prate, rore, and lie
Against all order rule and descencie;
And all such as are not seditious
To call them Papists, and idollatrous,
As Froggs and Toades do breed from Putred slime
So do these Vermine feed upon mens crime
Like Swine ith' mire, they love to wallow in
The Sordid Loathsom Excrements of Sin.
And though offenders suffer worthily
Yet will these varlets malice never die,
For though unhappy Strafford be struck dead
They mount him up a cock-horse sans a head.
And this most precious youth, with tongue and pen
Is chiefe amongst the devills serving men,
For with his serpents tongue and poysned breath
He doth his worst to torture after death,
And sure because thou canst do Ill so well
Thou must expect to have thy hire in hell,
This stinking Vermin (mounseir overthwart)
Quite oposite to Nature, Law and Art,
Holds it not fit he should be kept in awe
Within the Rules and limmits of the Law,
And therefore if the Law should bid him stand
Then he would kneele, (contrary to command)
And when to kneele, good manners holds it fit
In opposition he would stand or sit;
For nothing his rebellious minde contents
That is not mix'd with disobedience
A sister as she chancd to set her eye on
The Kings Armes in the Church, the Rampant Lyon,
She said his Priap mov'd unlawfull motions
Which did disturbe and hinder her devotions,
But when her husband came to be Church warden
He caus'd some formes of flowers from field or Garden
Or sedge and flagges, 'twixt the Beast legges be painted
To hide his whim wham, which her minde had tainted.
This was done really, and 'tis no fable
To prove it so I quickly can be able,
And now thou poysoned pickthank pestilent
That writ'st and Rimest so poor so violent
Me think this my reply may answer thee,
If not, th'art like to have no more of me
I scorne and loath, that e're my pen or tongue
Should write or speak to such a lump of dunge;
Yet thou, (well skild in foolish impudence)
'Gainst these retorting lines will take offence
And with Mockado mouth and judgement Rash,
And tongue of Saye, thou'lt say all is but trash,
And that 'tis pitty, I should thus disperse
A businesse of such consequence in verse,
Indeed, with thee it cannot stand for good
Nor can it well by thee be understood,
Thou hat'st the muses, yet dost love to muse
In railing tearmes thy betters to abuse,
Verse must have method, measure, order, feet,
Proportion, cadence, weight and number, sweet
But thou that hat'st good verse, and libels make
Dost with the Devills cloven foot thy measure take
And where thou hast no power thou dost deride
(so will all Rogues that verse cannot abide)
But let such know, that heaven bred Poetry
Despiseth mundane poore fellicity,
Nor for Vaust ayre will like a mag-py Chatter,
Or for the Crummes of greatnes Lye and flatter,
I could write lines, (thou fowle ill looking elfe)
Should make thee (in Jambicks) hang thy selfe,
Th'art fowle within, and my sharp lancing quill
Can make Incision, and with Art and skill
Search deep for dead flesh and Coroded Cores
And from corruptions cleare and clense thy sores.
Th'art almost Gangren'd, and I surely think
No Ballsums better then a Poets Inke,
My pen can lash detraction and I can
Be valliantly bold, and wrong no man,
But wherefore (like a Mountebank) doe I
Spend time and Ink upon such rascall frye
As is this gad-flye. 'Tis not Sergeons Art
Can help him, it perhaps may make him smart.
But he will be uncured, as he hath bin
Except he first be Cleansed and purged within:
So, Walker, Walk Knave, and more Roguery brew
And farewell and be hangd, that's twice adiew.