 | Works of John Taylor the Water Poet not included in the folio volume of 1630 |  |
AQUA-MUSÆ:
OR, Cacafogo, Cacadæmon, CAPTAIN GEORGE WITHER Wrung in the Withers.
Deus dabit his quoque Funem.
5
Ha, let me see, is that that Traiterous Thing,
Whose Campo-Musæ hath Revil'd the King:
Sure 'tis not he; yet like him much he looks
That late compos'd such sinne Confounding Books,
In sharp Ramnusiaes Pisse, his Pen he dip'd
And Brittaines Great Abuses Whipt and Strip'd,
And in his Motto did with Braggs declare
That in himselfe all Vertues perfect were.
Art thou that wonder of the Vniverse
Whose lines Heav'n, Hell, and Through the World did Pierce,
In Sixteen hundred twenty six, that yeare
Thou Wrot'st a Book (Brittains Remembrancer)
And in that Book with Boasting Boldnesse, then
Thou Vaunt'st thy selfe a Miracle of Men,
For never Hippocrite did shew more skill
And Pend so Well, and yet intend so ill.
In thy third Page, thou in that Preface say'st,
That thou his Majesties High favour Weighst
And that thou holdst His Grace more deere to thee
And Precious, then thy very soule could be.
Thy fourth Page Saies, thy Muse Spewes not Base Rimes
'Gainst Publique Persons (but to Lash the Times)
Thou applie'st King Davids Nine and Thirtieth Psalme
His Stormes of Griefes, his hidden fire, his Calme,
All which Blasphemously thy selfe Appliest
Vnto thy selfe; And in Applying Lyest.
Thy ninth Page saies, bad Tongues will set their stings
Unjustly, on the Sacred names of Kings.
Thy tenth Page truely doth the Truth Repeat,
That the King sits in God Almighties Seat.
And thus (with Pharisaicall Ostentation)
Thou saist Commission, (Calling, Revelation,)
Were given thee from above, Reader, pray Note,
How this Imposture late hath turn'd his Coate;
View but his Campo Musæ, and Confer
The words and Sense, with his Remembrancer,
And wavering Lies and Lines (Black upon White)
Shewes rayling Hypocrite, Hermophrodite,
Nor Male or Female, neither both or neither
Much more Incongruent then flint and feather.
Is this the Vulgar Vassalls, Valiant George
Whose Whileom Muse did oracles disgorge,
Who was admir'd of every Man and Woeman
Of all sorts, from the Tinker to the Broomeman,
Sure this cannot be he, And yet 'tis he,
Then how (the Devill) can he thus changed be,
Can he, that so much honesty profest
(As if all honesty had been in's Brest)
Can he be Metamorphos'd to a Knave,
And write and fight, his Soveraigne to out-brave,
Can his Lines Lye (that sweet Peace did desire)
Yet stirs up Warres, to set the Realme on fire,
All this is possible, all this is done,
This is George Wyther, his owne Mothers Son.
Now he's great George a Horse-back, (mounted high)
Dares to affront, and Raile 'gainst Majesty,
This is the George thus alterd, thus all-turd
Whose Satyres Goose-quill is transform'd t'a sword,
For whose sake, I protest it with my Pen,
I never will trust Wall-eyd Jade agen.
Brave George, no George of Cappodocia,
But famous George of Braggodocia,
Ride on fierce George, untill thy high desert
By Transmutation, make thy Horse a Cart.
What contraries doth thy mad Braines possesse
That with a Traiterous Warre doth Peace professe,
That playes at fast, and loose, with handy dandy
Mak'st Subjects 'gainst their Soveraigne Bullets bandy,
Much mischiefe in that double mind did lurke,
And Hell it selfe, set that dam'd Muse a worke.
Was ever such vile fragment Riming Raggs
Patch'd up together with abusive Braggs;
That who so doth his Campo-Musæ Read,
Will judge the Devill did his Invention Lead;
Like to a Iesuited subtill Fox,
His Honest Writings but a Paradox:
His Verities are false, his Errors true,
Such Riffe Raffe hotch Potch, his sweet Muse doth Brew.
How villany doth cunningly deceive,
And good and bad together interweave;
He Praies, Inveighs, Commends, Contemns, Extols,
Approves, Reproves, Loves, Scornes, Obeys, Controls,
Admits, Commits, Omits, Permits, submits,
Remits, and Limmits, as his humor fits,
Tossing his Soveraignes Honour to and fro,
Even as his sawcy Idle Braines do Crow,
And with his Rimes doth Knaves and Fooles inspire
To blow the Bellowes of Rebellious fire.
Hell never Spewd worse villaines then are those
That weekly (weakly) Raile in Rime and Prose,
'Mongst which accursed Crew, a part thou Bearst,
And in the Divells great name Rebellion Rearst.
For had not that black Breed of Cerberus,
Scout, Dove, Diurnall, and Britannicus,
Wise Wither, Booker, and the damned swarmes
Of Rake-hells, Animated Englands harmes,
All our Contentions had been reconcil'd
Long since, and blessed Peace had gently smil'd.
Wer't not for theirs and thine ill working Braine,
The King had Iustly had His own againe:
Th'affrighting front of bloody Warre had not
Disturb'd no honest English man or Scot.
Thousands of Soules are from their Bodies parted,
(By Lyes and Cursed Libellers perverted)
Which may be fear'd did to perdition fall
Before their Bodies could have Buriall.
You Mungrell Whelps of Hells Infernall Litter,
What is the cause that makes your hate so bitter,
Is it because you thinke your selves more Righteous,
Or (in the Devills name) wherefore thus despight ye us?
Is it because the King's a Protestant,
That 'gainst him you are joyn'd in Covenant?
Is it because he meanes to be so still
And never meanes to change, you wish him ill?
Is it because hee's Mercifull and Iust
You those Indignities upon him thrust,
Is it because he ne're intended wrong
That you doe hold his Life and Raigne too long?
Are these the Causes wherefore you dislike him
Are these th'occasions why your Malice strike him?
Goe hang your selves base Villaines, he shall Live
And flourish, and his God will Guerdon give
To you with Judas, and Achitophell
Where unrepenting Cursed Rebells dwell.
What Armes into the Field can Traitors bring
But Arm'd Impiety against the King;
Is not the Person of the King so high
As God Almighties sacred Deputie?
Then what are those blasphemous Rabshakaes
Anathema's, and Maranathema'es?
God lookes and sees how they doe plot and plod
They understand not, nor seeke after God,
Abhominable out ot'h way they'r gone
Ther's none doth good amongst them, no not one,
Their Throats are open Sepulchers, their Tongues
Have ly'de deceitfully with slandring Wrongs,
And underneath their Lips Aspes poyson is,
Their Mouthes are full of Cursing bitternes,
Their Feet are very swift mens blood to shed
Haples destruction in the wayes they tread,
The way of Peace they have not knowne, and there
Before their eyes of God there is no feare.
Thus is the foureteenth Psalme in Davids stile
Apply'd to such as dare the King Revile.
And what art thou then, but a false pretender
That seekes to Ruinate the Faiths Defender:
To blow Warres Trumpet, without warrant for it,
Is foule Rebellion, all good men abhorre it.
And what hath Roguish Riming, Tricks and Ieeres
But set us all together by the Eares,
To Murder, Pilfer, Plunder, and oppresse,
To make Wives Widdowes, Children fatherlesse,
The Father 'gainst the Son, Son 'gainst the Father,
And Brother against Brother force together,
Whil'st Christian Faith, you Hipocrites or'ewhelme,
And Publique Faith hath Cheated all the Realme.
This (Master George) is your great Trades Encrease
To Write, Raile, and disturbe your Countryes Peace,
In Rime to render our Dread Soveraigne odious,
For your great profit hath been much commodious,
Had'st thou not Writ, and Raild as thou hast done
Th'adst been no Captaine, Th'adst bin hangd as soone;
The onely way to flourish, and goe brave,
Is to turne Rebell, Hipocrite and Knave,
If I my selfe, would but a Villaine be
I should be Mounted and prefer'd like thee.
Yet 'tis not feare of Heavens Eternall wrath
Or Hells dam'd Tortures, me restrained hath,
But filiall feare of God, in me beares sway,
That I in love his Ordinance obay,
And those that doe not (I doe feare) their fate
Will be the portion of the Reprobate.
But whither Wither, doth my fancy flee?
I ought not write in serious phrase to thee,
Thou precious most pernicious Prelate hater
To Durhams Reverend Bishop thou wast Cater,
Or Steward, where to make thy 'Compts seem cleare,
Thou made'st two Monthes of July in one yeare,
And in the totall Reck'ning it was found
Thou Cheat'st the Bishop of five hundred pound.
But thou didst hold it for no sinne at all,
To Rob the Person that's Episcopall.
This is no Crime in thee or thy Compeeres,
Tub-Preaching Tinkers, Pedlars, Pulpitteeres,
Whose best Religion, is most irreligious,
Who think Church Spoylers are not sacrilegious,
Who hold the Clergy as superfluous People,
And make the Chancell baser then the Steeple.
These are as arrant Rogues as ever twangd
And I doe wish them in the Bell-ropes hangd.
But leaving unto God, the wronged Clergie
Now, with a fresh Charge, Wither I must charge ye,
And in a true way, I will make Relation,
That thy best Writings are Equivocation.
And that thy mind and Muse, were never friends
In any goodnesse, but for private ends.
But leaving that a while, I will discourse
And once i'le put the Cart before the Horse;
Thy Picture to thy Bookes was Printed, put
With curious Workmanship engrav'd and cut:
And Verses under it, were wisely pend
Which fooles suppos'd were written by some friend,
Which God knowes, thou, I, and a Thousand know,
Those lines (thy selfe praise) from thy selfe did flow,
Thou dotedst so upon thine owne Effigies,
It look'd so smugge, Religious, Irreligious,
So Amiable Lovely, Sweet and Fine,
A Phisnomie Poetique and Divine:
'Till (like Narcissus) gazing in that Brook,
Pride drown'd thee, in thy selfe admiring Book.
Yet for your Valour, you deserv'd much fame
You Conquer'd Farnham Castle, and did tame
And vanquisht all the Cavaliers so Bravely,
(Look in a Glasse, and you shall see the Knave Lye)
A Dogge, two Cats, and an old Woeman were
Your opposites, when as you entred there,
For which great service, had your Masters might,
And power withall; you had bin dubd a Knight.
But 'tis no matter, they might doe as well,
They may Create you halfe a Colonell.
In Farnham Castle, thou wast great Commander,
And Thoughtst thy selfe more great then Alexander,
Yet in thy Carriage, Valour, Fashion, Forme,
Thou wast a Strong, Infirme, Stout, Feeble Worme.
For when thy Master Rebels call'd thee out,
With all thy fellowes of that damned Rout,
Thy Cowardise, thou finely did'st disguise,
Thy sight was dim, the blame was in thine Eyes.
For want of sight, thou durst not see to Fight,
But like a Rebell Divell couldst see to Write.
'Tis well thou wast not Valiant, as thy Pen
Emblazons thee, th'hadst then bin Man of Men,
Great Agamemnon to thee were a Toy,
And Brave Achilles but a prating Boy,
Ulysses a poor Silly Stoick Asse,
And Hector for a Foole in Armes should passe.
Oh had'st thou had the profit of thine Eyne,
Th'adst beaten purblind all the Worthies 9.
Thus blind with Ignorance, and Impudence,
And Wall-ey'de in thy seared Conscience,
Thy Goose-quill, hath Revil'd the King and Law,
When as thy Sword thou never dar'st to draw,
For which from both sides thou deserv'st a Fee,
A Triple Twist at the Triangle Tree.
Whose Campo-Musæ hath Revil'd the King:
Sure 'tis not he; yet like him much he looks
That late compos'd such sinne Confounding Books,
In sharp Ramnusiaes Pisse, his Pen he dip'd
And Brittaines Great Abuses Whipt and Strip'd,
And in his Motto did with Braggs declare
That in himselfe all Vertues perfect were.
Art thou that wonder of the Vniverse
Whose lines Heav'n, Hell, and Through the World did Pierce,
In Sixteen hundred twenty six, that yeare
Thou Wrot'st a Book (Brittains Remembrancer)
And in that Book with Boasting Boldnesse, then
Thou Vaunt'st thy selfe a Miracle of Men,
For never Hippocrite did shew more skill
And Pend so Well, and yet intend so ill.
In thy third Page, thou in that Preface say'st,
That thou his Majesties High favour Weighst
And that thou holdst His Grace more deere to thee
And Precious, then thy very soule could be.
Thy fourth Page Saies, thy Muse Spewes not Base Rimes
'Gainst Publique Persons (but to Lash the Times)
Thou applie'st King Davids Nine and Thirtieth Psalme
His Stormes of Griefes, his hidden fire, his Calme,
All which Blasphemously thy selfe Appliest
Vnto thy selfe; And in Applying Lyest.
Thy ninth Page saies, bad Tongues will set their stings
Unjustly, on the Sacred names of Kings.
6
That the King sits in God Almighties Seat.
And thus (with Pharisaicall Ostentation)
Thou saist Commission, (Calling, Revelation,)
Were given thee from above, Reader, pray Note,
How this Imposture late hath turn'd his Coate;
View but his Campo Musæ, and Confer
The words and Sense, with his Remembrancer,
And wavering Lies and Lines (Black upon White)
Shewes rayling Hypocrite, Hermophrodite,
Nor Male or Female, neither both or neither
Much more Incongruent then flint and feather.
Is this the Vulgar Vassalls, Valiant George
Whose Whileom Muse did oracles disgorge,
Who was admir'd of every Man and Woeman
Of all sorts, from the Tinker to the Broomeman,
Sure this cannot be he, And yet 'tis he,
Then how (the Devill) can he thus changed be,
Can he, that so much honesty profest
(As if all honesty had been in's Brest)
Can he be Metamorphos'd to a Knave,
And write and fight, his Soveraigne to out-brave,
Can his Lines Lye (that sweet Peace did desire)
Yet stirs up Warres, to set the Realme on fire,
All this is possible, all this is done,
This is George Wyther, his owne Mothers Son.
Now he's great George a Horse-back, (mounted high)
Dares to affront, and Raile 'gainst Majesty,
This is the George thus alterd, thus all-turd
Whose Satyres Goose-quill is transform'd t'a sword,
For whose sake, I protest it with my Pen,
I never will trust Wall-eyd Jade agen.
Brave George, no George of Cappodocia,
But famous George of Braggodocia,
Ride on fierce George, untill thy high desert
By Transmutation, make thy Horse a Cart.
What contraries doth thy mad Braines possesse
That with a Traiterous Warre doth Peace professe,
7
Mak'st Subjects 'gainst their Soveraigne Bullets bandy,
Much mischiefe in that double mind did lurke,
And Hell it selfe, set that dam'd Muse a worke.
Was ever such vile fragment Riming Raggs
Patch'd up together with abusive Braggs;
That who so doth his Campo-Musæ Read,
Will judge the Devill did his Invention Lead;
Like to a Iesuited subtill Fox,
His Honest Writings but a Paradox:
His Verities are false, his Errors true,
Such Riffe Raffe hotch Potch, his sweet Muse doth Brew.
How villany doth cunningly deceive,
And good and bad together interweave;
He Praies, Inveighs, Commends, Contemns, Extols,
Approves, Reproves, Loves, Scornes, Obeys, Controls,
Admits, Commits, Omits, Permits, submits,
Remits, and Limmits, as his humor fits,
Tossing his Soveraignes Honour to and fro,
Even as his sawcy Idle Braines do Crow,
And with his Rimes doth Knaves and Fooles inspire
To blow the Bellowes of Rebellious fire.
Hell never Spewd worse villaines then are those
That weekly (weakly) Raile in Rime and Prose,
'Mongst which accursed Crew, a part thou Bearst,
And in the Divells great name Rebellion Rearst.
For had not that black Breed of Cerberus,
Scout, Dove, Diurnall, and Britannicus,
Wise Wither, Booker, and the damned swarmes
Of Rake-hells, Animated Englands harmes,
All our Contentions had been reconcil'd
Long since, and blessed Peace had gently smil'd.
Wer't not for theirs and thine ill working Braine,
The King had Iustly had His own againe:
Th'affrighting front of bloody Warre had not
Disturb'd no honest English man or Scot.
Thousands of Soules are from their Bodies parted,
(By Lyes and Cursed Libellers perverted)
8
Before their Bodies could have Buriall.
You Mungrell Whelps of Hells Infernall Litter,
What is the cause that makes your hate so bitter,
Is it because you thinke your selves more Righteous,
Or (in the Devills name) wherefore thus despight ye us?
Is it because the King's a Protestant,
That 'gainst him you are joyn'd in Covenant?
Is it because he meanes to be so still
And never meanes to change, you wish him ill?
Is it because hee's Mercifull and Iust
You those Indignities upon him thrust,
Is it because he ne're intended wrong
That you doe hold his Life and Raigne too long?
Are these the Causes wherefore you dislike him
Are these th'occasions why your Malice strike him?
Goe hang your selves base Villaines, he shall Live
And flourish, and his God will Guerdon give
To you with Judas, and Achitophell
Where unrepenting Cursed Rebells dwell.
What Armes into the Field can Traitors bring
But Arm'd Impiety against the King;
Is not the Person of the King so high
As God Almighties sacred Deputie?
Then what are those blasphemous Rabshakaes
Anathema's, and Maranathema'es?
God lookes and sees how they doe plot and plod
They understand not, nor seeke after God,
Abhominable out ot'h way they'r gone
Ther's none doth good amongst them, no not one,
Their Throats are open Sepulchers, their Tongues
Have ly'de deceitfully with slandring Wrongs,
And underneath their Lips Aspes poyson is,
Their Mouthes are full of Cursing bitternes,
Their Feet are very swift mens blood to shed
Haples destruction in the wayes they tread,
The way of Peace they have not knowne, and there
Before their eyes of God there is no feare.
9
Apply'd to such as dare the King Revile.
And what art thou then, but a false pretender
That seekes to Ruinate the Faiths Defender:
To blow Warres Trumpet, without warrant for it,
Is foule Rebellion, all good men abhorre it.
And what hath Roguish Riming, Tricks and Ieeres
But set us all together by the Eares,
To Murder, Pilfer, Plunder, and oppresse,
To make Wives Widdowes, Children fatherlesse,
The Father 'gainst the Son, Son 'gainst the Father,
And Brother against Brother force together,
Whil'st Christian Faith, you Hipocrites or'ewhelme,
And Publique Faith hath Cheated all the Realme.
This (Master George) is your great Trades Encrease
To Write, Raile, and disturbe your Countryes Peace,
In Rime to render our Dread Soveraigne odious,
For your great profit hath been much commodious,
Had'st thou not Writ, and Raild as thou hast done
Th'adst been no Captaine, Th'adst bin hangd as soone;
The onely way to flourish, and goe brave,
Is to turne Rebell, Hipocrite and Knave,
If I my selfe, would but a Villaine be
I should be Mounted and prefer'd like thee.
Yet 'tis not feare of Heavens Eternall wrath
Or Hells dam'd Tortures, me restrained hath,
But filiall feare of God, in me beares sway,
That I in love his Ordinance obay,
And those that doe not (I doe feare) their fate
Will be the portion of the Reprobate.
But whither Wither, doth my fancy flee?
I ought not write in serious phrase to thee,
Thou precious most pernicious Prelate hater
To Durhams Reverend Bishop thou wast Cater,
Or Steward, where to make thy 'Compts seem cleare,
Thou made'st two Monthes of July in one yeare,
And in the totall Reck'ning it was found
Thou Cheat'st the Bishop of five hundred pound.
10
To Rob the Person that's Episcopall.
This is no Crime in thee or thy Compeeres,
Tub-Preaching Tinkers, Pedlars, Pulpitteeres,
Whose best Religion, is most irreligious,
Who think Church Spoylers are not sacrilegious,
Who hold the Clergy as superfluous People,
And make the Chancell baser then the Steeple.
These are as arrant Rogues as ever twangd
And I doe wish them in the Bell-ropes hangd.
But leaving unto God, the wronged Clergie
Now, with a fresh Charge, Wither I must charge ye,
And in a true way, I will make Relation,
That thy best Writings are Equivocation.
And that thy mind and Muse, were never friends
In any goodnesse, but for private ends.
But leaving that a while, I will discourse
And once i'le put the Cart before the Horse;
Thy Picture to thy Bookes was Printed, put
With curious Workmanship engrav'd and cut:
And Verses under it, were wisely pend
Which fooles suppos'd were written by some friend,
Which God knowes, thou, I, and a Thousand know,
Those lines (thy selfe praise) from thy selfe did flow,
Thou dotedst so upon thine owne Effigies,
It look'd so smugge, Religious, Irreligious,
So Amiable Lovely, Sweet and Fine,
A Phisnomie Poetique and Divine:
'Till (like Narcissus) gazing in that Brook,
Pride drown'd thee, in thy selfe admiring Book.
Yet for your Valour, you deserv'd much fame
You Conquer'd Farnham Castle, and did tame
And vanquisht all the Cavaliers so Bravely,
(Look in a Glasse, and you shall see the Knave Lye)
A Dogge, two Cats, and an old Woeman were
Your opposites, when as you entred there,
For which great service, had your Masters might,
And power withall; you had bin dubd a Knight.
11
They may Create you halfe a Colonell.
In Farnham Castle, thou wast great Commander,
And Thoughtst thy selfe more great then Alexander,
Yet in thy Carriage, Valour, Fashion, Forme,
Thou wast a Strong, Infirme, Stout, Feeble Worme.
For when thy Master Rebels call'd thee out,
With all thy fellowes of that damned Rout,
Thy Cowardise, thou finely did'st disguise,
Thy sight was dim, the blame was in thine Eyes.
For want of sight, thou durst not see to Fight,
But like a Rebell Divell couldst see to Write.
'Tis well thou wast not Valiant, as thy Pen
Emblazons thee, th'hadst then bin Man of Men,
Great Agamemnon to thee were a Toy,
And Brave Achilles but a prating Boy,
Ulysses a poor Silly Stoick Asse,
And Hector for a Foole in Armes should passe.
Oh had'st thou had the profit of thine Eyne,
Th'adst beaten purblind all the Worthies 9.
Thus blind with Ignorance, and Impudence,
And Wall-ey'de in thy seared Conscience,
Thy Goose-quill, hath Revil'd the King and Law,
When as thy Sword thou never dar'st to draw,
For which from both sides thou deserv'st a Fee,
A Triple Twist at the Triangle Tree.
And now I'le leave to fish in troubled Waters,
Let's talke a little of some other Matters;
'Tis knowne that once within these thirty yeares,
Thou wast in Jayle for scandalling some Peeres,
And 'tis not lawfull for a Satyres Pen,
To wrong the Honours of particular Men,
Which you did, not for any hate you bore
To Vice or Villany, but that therefore
You would be famous, and to Prizen Committed,
Whereby you seem'd most wonderfully Witted.
There, in the Marshalseas, whole flights of Gulls,
Of Schismatiques, of Cuckolds, Knaves and Trulls,
In Droves and Heardes, in Pilgrimage they came
(As Er'st Fooles did t'our Lady of Walsingham)
You were their Idoll Saint, and at your Shrine
They offred Hecatombes of Coyne and Wine,
Sweet meates and Iunkets, (more then you could dreame)
Came flowing to you dayly like a streame.
Thus to your Mill came tagge, ragge, great and small,
You Ground, and (with the Cogges) took toll of all.
At last to give some Ease unto your Mill
You were Releast from Priz'n against your will.
Then was your Pockets Treasure full to'th top,
Which (by degrees) might t'a Consumption drop,
Then after that (by chance) met you and I
Where we us'de Complementall courtesy,
And talkd of Poetry, and then I sayd
You (by the Muses favour) was well payd,
Whilst I (for my part) whatsoe're I writ
Though men approved and applauded it,
Yet fortune unto me, was still unkind
Bounty was fast asleep, or hard to find,
Verbositie and Vapour was my Gaines
And Poverty the Portion of my Paines,
Though you found many an Ignorant Mecenas,
Which made you fat, still remain'd a Leane Asse,
Words like to those, or much to this effect
I spake, and you this Answer did direct.
John, you must boldly doe, as I have don
Against great Persons let your Verses run,
Snarle at the State, and let your Satyre's pen
Write against Government, and Noblemen.
You must run wilfully into offence,
What though they call it sawcy Impudence,
And so Commit you for't, as they did me
Then shall you Thrive, and be as you would be;
Your Books would sell your selfe get Coyn and Fame,
And then (like mine) Renown'd shall be your Name.
I doe not say our talke was punctuall such,
But what we spake imported full as much.
By which may be perceiv'd thou Wrot'st so odly
Not out of Hatred unto Acts ungodly,
By insinuation to intrude
Into th'affections of the Multitude.
Thus from poor witlesse Lumps of Ignorance
Thou gatt'st Applause, Coyne, Cloaths, and Countenance.
As to their Cost, the most of them can prove
Thou Cheat'st 'em of their Money and their love,
And now your Campo-Musæ hath found Grace
To grace you in a gracelesse Captains Place.
Now dreadfull Warres, and Politique designes
Are the Effects of thy Prophetique Lines:
Armes, mighty Armes, and strange Redoubted deeds
Are th'Issues now that ftom thy Muse proceeds,
Th'ast turnd thy Anagrams to Ambuscadoes
Thy Diagrams to terrible Bravadoes,
Thy Chronograms to horrible Stockadoes,
Thy Epigrams to desp'rate Imbrocadoes,
Thy Disticks to Redoubts and Barricadoes,
Thy Dactills and thy Spondees to Scalladoes,
Thy measur'd verse to Marches and Soldadoes,
Thy Cantoes, and Acrosticks to Granadoes,
Thy Canzoes to Brigades, and Canvasadoes,
Thy Dialogues to Bruising Bastinadoes,
Thy Prologues to most Barbarous Stab-adoes,
Thy Catalogues to Vagrant Renegadoes,
Thy Epilogues to Warlike Pallizadoes,
And Warwick playes th'usurping Adelantado,
For Englands ruine rules the Kings Armado,
But 'tis my hope your ends will prove Mockado,
Not worth a ragge of rotten welch Freezado,
And thou esteemed lesse then a Lantzprezado.
For if thou durst lay by thy cursed Spleen,
And speak but Loyally of King and Queen,
Cease to bely the Lords, and but deny
Thou never slandred'st them with Papistry;
Cease to Abuse the Bishops, and the Tribe
Of sacred Levi, cease thou cursed Scribe,
T'applaud foule Treason, and approve all those,
That to Gods Church the King, and Peace are foes:
Seek but thy Countreys Peace in word and deed,
Thy Maisters then will hang thee for thy Meede,
Be but an Honest man two daies together,
No more a Captain then, but Poor George Wither.
Should I but answer every Lye and Line,
In that Base Balderdash poor Thing of thine,
I might b'accounted so, so, Thus and Thus,
An Asse impertinent, Voluminus,
A Murderer of Paper, a time Waster,
A Folio Foole, a Zany Poetaster,
Thy Apish Coxcombe (in thy imitation,
Like thee) the Squirt-Rime of our Troubled Nation,
One of the Sages of Old Gothams Clarkes
That makes reply to every dog that Barkes.
E're I'le so be thy means for Maintenance,
Let thy Applauders dye in Ignorance,
For 'tis most probable thy jeeres and Lying,
Thou wrot'st in hope of Gaine by my Replying.
And if men truly would thy Book examine,
There may they find both Sense and Reasons famine,
All broken Numbers, fractions, faction, fictions,
Meer Mutabilities, selfe Contradictions,
In Dock, out Nettle, here, there, every where,
And in conclusion, no where, here nor there,
The Phrase wherewith thy Verse are Beawtifide,
Is onely where the King is Vileifide,
And that for which thou most art Gratifide,
Hath made a Thousand fooles mis-edifide;
With impudence thou art so fortifide,
And with Hipocrisie so Quallifide,
And (to the World) thy selfe hast justifide,
That from the World thou art cleane Mortifide,
All which thy Boasting Rimes have certifide,
For under thine own hand 'tis Testifide,
And by a crew of Rebels Notifide,
(Such as with Ignorance are Stupifide)
That those bad times so fowle and Putrifide,
By thy rare Writings are much purifide:
And as we finde by warre so mundifide,
Vnparallel'd and unexemplifide,
(Or at the least so neatly rectifide)
That thou deservest to be stellifide,
Or Idoliz'd and almost Deifide,
In the mean time thy fame is Magnifide,
Thy person wondred at, and dignifide,
And (if they could) thou should'st be satisfide,
(Although themselves were double Damnifide)
Thy Female faire, adorn'd and turpifide,
Should, for thy services be Ladifide:
All this by Fooles and Rebels Ratifide,
Is by all wise men scorn'd and Nullifide.
Our Miseries thou hast not mollifide,
Thou our calamities hast amplifide,
And this my Satyr's Lash hath verifide.
This thou maist see, and this thou must allow,
I can Rand words, and Rime as well as thou:
Speak and write Nonsence, even by thy example,
(Though not like thine Admir'd abroad so ample)
Like to the inundation of a flame,
Or like a Mad Lord, never out of frame,
Or like the Entrailes of a purple Snaile,
Or like the wagging of the Dog-starres Taile,
Or like the Frost and Snow that falls in June,
Or like sweet Musique, that was ne're in Tune:
Or like a Ship that wants sides, Stem and Keele,
Or like the Marrow-bones of Fortunes Wheele,
Even such is Wither, like all these or nothing,
Yet like himselfe, in every good mans Loathing.
And is not this rare Nonsence, prethee tell,
Much like thy writing, if men marke it well:
For Nonsence is Rebellion, and thy writing,
Is nothing but Rebellious Warres inciting.
Base Scandall, Lyes, and Disobedience,
Is most Ridiculous, and poor Nonsence,
Ther's nothing is true sense, but what is true,
And Hanging is good sense for such as you.
Apollo made not thee his onely Heire
In Poetry, I gat some part for my share,
And though with Art thou partly art endo'wd,
Yet God and Nature, me some Guifts allow'd:
Which I (as my poor Tallent will extend)
To Vindicate my wronged King I'le spend.
Nor am I bound (whate're thou may'st suggest)
To think 'mongst Englands Poets thou art best,
Thy Verses many wayes applauded are
Yet many that Boast lesse may reach as farre.
Doth all invention in thy Braine Consist,
Art thou the Bounds, the Limits and the List,
The Longitude of Wit and Honesty,
The Latitude of true Integrity;
Art thou th'Hyperbole wonder, whose Rare Partes
Is Non Plus Ultra, of all Armes and Artes,
Art thou all this, the Devill thou art. Bragge on,
My selfe once gat a Sippe of Hellicon,
Which with Enthusiasmes did infuse
Into my Braines some Rap'ts of every Muse,
And therefore, I am sure, thou hast not all,
I have my Portion too (although but small.)
Which i'ft t'were lesse by halfe, I dare assay,
To Cope with thee, in any Loyall way.
But to write Verse, that may Rebellion breed
Therein thou art too hard for me indeed.
In the meane space, thou Pigmey Impe of Warr,
Rodomontado, Champion for the Par-
Lament, we grieve for grieved Englands woe,
Whilst every true Man's driven from his Po-
Sessions may try those Knaves that look so big;
And then 'tis ten to one, but Honest Grig-
Or I, in Lofty Verse thy praise shall Sing,
And Thou high Mounted to thy Merits, Swing.
Let's talke a little of some other Matters;
'Tis knowne that once within these thirty yeares,
Thou wast in Jayle for scandalling some Peeres,
And 'tis not lawfull for a Satyres Pen,
To wrong the Honours of particular Men,
Which you did, not for any hate you bore
To Vice or Villany, but that therefore
You would be famous, and to Prizen Committed,
Whereby you seem'd most wonderfully Witted.
There, in the Marshalseas, whole flights of Gulls,
Of Schismatiques, of Cuckolds, Knaves and Trulls,
12
(As Er'st Fooles did t'our Lady of Walsingham)
You were their Idoll Saint, and at your Shrine
They offred Hecatombes of Coyne and Wine,
Sweet meates and Iunkets, (more then you could dreame)
Came flowing to you dayly like a streame.
Thus to your Mill came tagge, ragge, great and small,
You Ground, and (with the Cogges) took toll of all.
At last to give some Ease unto your Mill
You were Releast from Priz'n against your will.
Then was your Pockets Treasure full to'th top,
Which (by degrees) might t'a Consumption drop,
Then after that (by chance) met you and I
Where we us'de Complementall courtesy,
And talkd of Poetry, and then I sayd
You (by the Muses favour) was well payd,
Whilst I (for my part) whatsoe're I writ
Though men approved and applauded it,
Yet fortune unto me, was still unkind
Bounty was fast asleep, or hard to find,
Verbositie and Vapour was my Gaines
And Poverty the Portion of my Paines,
Though you found many an Ignorant Mecenas,
Which made you fat, still remain'd a Leane Asse,
Words like to those, or much to this effect
I spake, and you this Answer did direct.
John, you must boldly doe, as I have don
Against great Persons let your Verses run,
Snarle at the State, and let your Satyre's pen
Write against Government, and Noblemen.
You must run wilfully into offence,
What though they call it sawcy Impudence,
And so Commit you for't, as they did me
Then shall you Thrive, and be as you would be;
Your Books would sell your selfe get Coyn and Fame,
And then (like mine) Renown'd shall be your Name.
I doe not say our talke was punctuall such,
But what we spake imported full as much.
13
Not out of Hatred unto Acts ungodly,
By insinuation to intrude
Into th'affections of the Multitude.
Thus from poor witlesse Lumps of Ignorance
Thou gatt'st Applause, Coyne, Cloaths, and Countenance.
As to their Cost, the most of them can prove
Thou Cheat'st 'em of their Money and their love,
And now your Campo-Musæ hath found Grace
To grace you in a gracelesse Captains Place.
Now dreadfull Warres, and Politique designes
Are the Effects of thy Prophetique Lines:
Armes, mighty Armes, and strange Redoubted deeds
Are th'Issues now that ftom thy Muse proceeds,
Th'ast turnd thy Anagrams to Ambuscadoes
Thy Diagrams to terrible Bravadoes,
Thy Chronograms to horrible Stockadoes,
Thy Epigrams to desp'rate Imbrocadoes,
Thy Disticks to Redoubts and Barricadoes,
Thy Dactills and thy Spondees to Scalladoes,
Thy measur'd verse to Marches and Soldadoes,
Thy Cantoes, and Acrosticks to Granadoes,
Thy Canzoes to Brigades, and Canvasadoes,
Thy Dialogues to Bruising Bastinadoes,
Thy Prologues to most Barbarous Stab-adoes,
Thy Catalogues to Vagrant Renegadoes,
Thy Epilogues to Warlike Pallizadoes,
And Warwick playes th'usurping Adelantado,
For Englands ruine rules the Kings Armado,
But 'tis my hope your ends will prove Mockado,
Not worth a ragge of rotten welch Freezado,
And thou esteemed lesse then a Lantzprezado.
For if thou durst lay by thy cursed Spleen,
And speak but Loyally of King and Queen,
Cease to bely the Lords, and but deny
Thou never slandred'st them with Papistry;
Cease to Abuse the Bishops, and the Tribe
Of sacred Levi, cease thou cursed Scribe,
14
That to Gods Church the King, and Peace are foes:
Seek but thy Countreys Peace in word and deed,
Thy Maisters then will hang thee for thy Meede,
Be but an Honest man two daies together,
No more a Captain then, but Poor George Wither.
Should I but answer every Lye and Line,
In that Base Balderdash poor Thing of thine,
I might b'accounted so, so, Thus and Thus,
An Asse impertinent, Voluminus,
A Murderer of Paper, a time Waster,
A Folio Foole, a Zany Poetaster,
Thy Apish Coxcombe (in thy imitation,
Like thee) the Squirt-Rime of our Troubled Nation,
One of the Sages of Old Gothams Clarkes
That makes reply to every dog that Barkes.
E're I'le so be thy means for Maintenance,
Let thy Applauders dye in Ignorance,
For 'tis most probable thy jeeres and Lying,
Thou wrot'st in hope of Gaine by my Replying.
And if men truly would thy Book examine,
There may they find both Sense and Reasons famine,
All broken Numbers, fractions, faction, fictions,
Meer Mutabilities, selfe Contradictions,
In Dock, out Nettle, here, there, every where,
And in conclusion, no where, here nor there,
The Phrase wherewith thy Verse are Beawtifide,
Is onely where the King is Vileifide,
And that for which thou most art Gratifide,
Hath made a Thousand fooles mis-edifide;
With impudence thou art so fortifide,
And with Hipocrisie so Quallifide,
And (to the World) thy selfe hast justifide,
That from the World thou art cleane Mortifide,
All which thy Boasting Rimes have certifide,
For under thine own hand 'tis Testifide,
And by a crew of Rebels Notifide,
(Such as with Ignorance are Stupifide)
15
By thy rare Writings are much purifide:
And as we finde by warre so mundifide,
Vnparallel'd and unexemplifide,
(Or at the least so neatly rectifide)
That thou deservest to be stellifide,
Or Idoliz'd and almost Deifide,
In the mean time thy fame is Magnifide,
Thy person wondred at, and dignifide,
And (if they could) thou should'st be satisfide,
(Although themselves were double Damnifide)
Thy Female faire, adorn'd and turpifide,
Should, for thy services be Ladifide:
All this by Fooles and Rebels Ratifide,
Is by all wise men scorn'd and Nullifide.
Our Miseries thou hast not mollifide,
Thou our calamities hast amplifide,
And this my Satyr's Lash hath verifide.
This thou maist see, and this thou must allow,
I can Rand words, and Rime as well as thou:
Speak and write Nonsence, even by thy example,
(Though not like thine Admir'd abroad so ample)
Like to the inundation of a flame,
Or like a Mad Lord, never out of frame,
Or like the Entrailes of a purple Snaile,
Or like the wagging of the Dog-starres Taile,
Or like the Frost and Snow that falls in June,
Or like sweet Musique, that was ne're in Tune:
Or like a Ship that wants sides, Stem and Keele,
Or like the Marrow-bones of Fortunes Wheele,
Even such is Wither, like all these or nothing,
Yet like himselfe, in every good mans Loathing.
And is not this rare Nonsence, prethee tell,
Much like thy writing, if men marke it well:
For Nonsence is Rebellion, and thy writing,
Is nothing but Rebellious Warres inciting.
Base Scandall, Lyes, and Disobedience,
Is most Ridiculous, and poor Nonsence,
16
And Hanging is good sense for such as you.
Apollo made not thee his onely Heire
In Poetry, I gat some part for my share,
And though with Art thou partly art endo'wd,
Yet God and Nature, me some Guifts allow'd:
Which I (as my poor Tallent will extend)
To Vindicate my wronged King I'le spend.
Nor am I bound (whate're thou may'st suggest)
To think 'mongst Englands Poets thou art best,
Thy Verses many wayes applauded are
Yet many that Boast lesse may reach as farre.
Doth all invention in thy Braine Consist,
Art thou the Bounds, the Limits and the List,
The Longitude of Wit and Honesty,
The Latitude of true Integrity;
Art thou th'Hyperbole wonder, whose Rare Partes
Is Non Plus Ultra, of all Armes and Artes,
Art thou all this, the Devill thou art. Bragge on,
My selfe once gat a Sippe of Hellicon,
Which with Enthusiasmes did infuse
Into my Braines some Rap'ts of every Muse,
And therefore, I am sure, thou hast not all,
I have my Portion too (although but small.)
Which i'ft t'were lesse by halfe, I dare assay,
To Cope with thee, in any Loyall way.
But to write Verse, that may Rebellion breed
Therein thou art too hard for me indeed.
In the meane space, thou Pigmey Impe of Warr,
Rodomontado, Champion for the Par-
Lament, we grieve for grieved Englands woe,
Whilst every true Man's driven from his Po-
Sessions may try those Knaves that look so big;
And then 'tis ten to one, but Honest Grig-
Or I, in Lofty Verse thy praise shall Sing,
And Thou high Mounted to thy Merits, Swing.
FINIS.
| Works of John Taylor the Water Poet not included in the folio volume of 1630 | |