







 
   
     
       
         The incomparable poem Gondibert vindicated from the wit-combats of four esquires, Clinias, Dametas, Sancho, and Jack Pudding
         Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
      
       
         This text is an enriched version of the TCP digital transcription A66001 of text R33656 in the  English Short Title Catalog (Wing W2130). Textual changes  and metadata enrichments aim at making the text more  computationally tractable, easier to read, and suitable for network-based collaborative curation by amateur and professional end users from many walks of life.  The text has been tokenized and linguistically annotated with  MorphAdorner. The annotation includes standard spellings that support the display of a text in a standardized format that preserves archaic forms ('loveth', 'seekest'). Textual changes aim at restoring the text the author or stationer meant to publish.  This text has not been fully proofread 
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         EarlyPrint Project
         Evanston,IL, Notre Dame, IN, St. Louis, MO
         2017
         A66001
         Wing W2130
         ESTC R33656
         13545514
         ocm 13545514
         100120
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A66001)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 100120)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 1559:38)
      
       
         
           
             The incomparable poem Gondibert vindicated from the wit-combats of four esquires, Clinias, Dametas, Sancho, and Jack Pudding
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           27 p.
           
             [s.n.],
             [London] printed :
             1655.
          
           
             Attributed to Wild by Wing and NUC pre-1956 imprints.
             Reproduction of original in the Harvard University Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
    
       A66001  R33656  (Wing W2130).  civilwar no The incomparable poem Gondibert, vindicated from the vvit-combats of four esquires, Clinias, Dametas, Sancho, and Jack Pudding. Wild, Robert 1653    5016 9 5 0 0 0 0 28 C  The  rate of 28 defects per 10,000 words puts this text in the C category of texts with between 10 and 35 defects per 10,000 words. 
        2003-08 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2003-09 Apex CoVantage
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2003-10 Judith Siefring
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2003-10 Judith Siefring
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2003-12 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
       
       
         
           THE
           Incomparable
           POEM
           GONDIBERT
           ,
           VINDICATED
           From
           the
           VVit-Combats
           OF
           Four
           ESQUIRES
           ,
           
             Clinias
             ,
             Dametas
             ,
             Sancho
             ,
          
           and
           
             Iack
             Pudding
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
               {non-Roman}
            
             .
          
           
             Vatum
             quoque
             gratia
             rara
             est
             .
          
        
         
           Anglicè
           ,
           
             
               One
               Wit-Brother
               ,
            
             
               Envies
               another
               .
            
          
        
         
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           ,
           1655.
           
        
      
    
     
       
       
       
         
           
             To
             Sir
          
           William
           Davenant
           .
        
         
           
             PArdon
             (
             fam'd
             Sir
             )
             if
             in
             th'
             Adventures
          
           
             Against
             these
             Cyclops
             ,
             &
             Wit-Centaures
             ,
          
           
             (
             Or
             Hydra's
             rather
             ,
             for
             they
             can
          
           
             Spring
             at
             a
             Club
             each
             man
             his
             man
             ,
          
           
             Seconds
             in
             Draull
             ,
             and
             Seconds
             unto
             none
             .
             )
          
           
             Thy
             yet
             unhurt
             Reputation
             ▪
          
           
             By
             me
             than
             them
             should
             suffer
             farther
             ,
          
           
             There
             ,
             by
             Wit-slaugher
             ,
             here
             ,
             Wit-murder
             .
          
        
         
           
             Of
             small
             aquaintance
             as
             e're
             writ
             ,
          
           
             I
             am
             onely
             known
             unto
             thy
             wit
             ;
          
           
             That
             's
             small
             enough
             ,
             will
             
               Denham
            
             say
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Iack
               Donne
            
             swear
             ,
             upon
             the
             day
             ,
          
           
             When
             at
             the
             arraignment
             of
             the
             Wits
             ,
          
           
             There
             spleen
             'gainst
             
               D'avenant
            
             pasquils
             spits
             .
          
        
         
           
             There
             sits
             
               Iack
               Straw
            
             as
             eldest
             Bencher
             ,
          
           
             And
             spends
             no
             money
             but
             his
             censure
             ;
          
           
             He
             layes
             the
             Book
             ,
             sets
             Sack
             and
             Clarret
             ,
          
           
             And
             with
             his
             Quibbles
             doth
             pay
             for
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             Not
             thy
             Book
             onely
             ,
             but
             each
             Poem
             ,
          
           
             This
             Wit-Committee
             doth
             cite
             to
             'em
             ;
          
           
             Thy
             Hot-cockler
             for
             something
             written
             ,
          
           
             By
             these
             Bumme-bayliffs
             hath
             been
             bitten
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             But
             you
             ,
             my
             friend
             ,
             (
             not
             
               Gondiberts
            
             )
          
           
             Forbear
             your
             Sarcasmes
             and
             your
             flirts
             ;
          
           
             For
             if
             you
             play
             the
             Cynick
             still
             ,
          
           
             And
             bite
             so
             hard
             my
             Knighted
             
               Will
               ,
            
          
           
             My
             Woodstreet
             Doctor
             ,
             (
             not
             a
             Wooden
             )
          
           
             A
             sure
             dissecter
             ,
             and
             a
             good
             one
             ,
          
           
             With
             hand
             accustom'd
             to
             knife
             keen
             ,
          
           
             Shall
             quaintly
             firk
             away
             your
             Spleen
             .
          
           
             So
             that
             you
             shall
             not
             bite
             ,
             nor
             raile
             ,
          
           
             But
             like
             kinde
             Puppies
             shake
             your
             taile
             .
          
        
         
           
             This
             may
             be
             Donne
             ,
             for
             I
             have
             seen
          
           
             A
             Barker's
             ,
             that
             's
             a
             Cynicks
             Spleen
          
           
             I'
             th'
             Doctors
             box
             .
             (
             Snarlers
             )
             't
             is
             true
             ,
          
           
             The
             Curre
             's
             as
             crank
             as
             any
             of
             you
             ,
          
           
             And
             frisks
             and
             fitchets
             up
             and
             down
             ,
          
           
             As
             you
             ,
             to
             all
             the
             Clubbs
             o'
             th'
             Town
             .
          
           
             All
             alike
             living
             by
             mishaps
             ,
          
           
             (
             What
             falls
             from
             table
             )
             poor
             Wit-scraps
             .
          
           
             
               Will
            
             shew
             thy
             face
             (
             be
             't
             what
             it
             will
             )
          
           
             We
             'l
             push
             'um
             yet
             a
             quill
             for
             quill
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             the
             world
             at
             latter
             loose
             ,
          
           
             Judge
             which
             was
             taken
             for
             a
             Goose
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Upon
           the
           misplaced
           Answer
           upon
           the
           Preface
           of
           
             Gondibert
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Lasciva
               est
               nobis
               Pagina
               ,
               vita
               proba
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             I
             Know
             the
             reason
             ,
             and
             't
             is
             pat
             ,
          
           
             Why
             none
             of
             you
             do
             english
             that
             .
          
           
             Nor
             will
             I
             ,
             friends
             ,
             for
             all
             our
             wrongs
          
           
             Should
             be
             objected
             in
             hard
             tongues
             .
          
        
         
           
             Ergo
             ,
             Lasciva
             est
             vobis
             Pagina
             ,
             vita
             
               probra
               .
            
          
        
         
           —
           You
           have
           found
           it
           ;
           
             pro
             in
             probra
          
           (
           if
           there
           be
           any
           such
           Adjective
           )
           is
           long
           ,
           it
           was
           a
           purpose
           made
           so
           ,
           it
           is
           according
           to
           your
           life
           ,
           so
           it
           is
           all
           your
           life
           long
           .
        
         
           Now
           after
           that
           note
           in
           Prose
           ,
           to
           the
           Verses
           .
        
         
           
             Just
             at
             the
             threshold
             pray
             you
             look
             ,
          
           
             Preface
             ,
             you
             say
             ,
             is
             nose
             to
             Book
             :
          
           
             Very
             familar
             sure
             are
             those
          
           
             We
             suffer
             to
             play
             with
             our
             nose
             ,
          
           
             But
             chief
             at
             sharp
             with
             pin
             ,
             or
             prickle
             :
          
           
             Yet
             these
             are
             Strawes
             ,
             but
             Strawes
             will
             tickle
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           On
           the
           Preface
           .
        
         
           
             Room
             for
             the
             best
             of
             Poets
             —
             jolt
             ,
          
           
             (
             This
             is
             the
             first
             Wit-thunder-bolt
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             The
             
               Sheriff's
            
             Verses
             must
             amate
             us
             ,
          
           
             They
             are
             the
             
               Posse
               comitatus
               .
            
          
           
             And
             those
             that
             follow
             in
             this
             List-all
             ,
          
           
             Are
             all
             his
             men
             ,
             with
             nere
             a
             Pistoll
             .
          
           
           
             Unlesse
             for
             Cases
             wide
             as
             
               Poulton's
            
             ,
          
           
             Perchance
             each
             man
             may
             have
             
               Paul
               Coulton's
            
             .
          
        
         
           
             What
             ,
             doth
             he
             baffle
             
               Hobs
            
             the
             
               Nathan
               ?
            
          
           
             Hook
             in
             ,
             old
             boy
             ,
             thy
             
               Levi-athan
               .
            
          
           
             The
             Wits
             they
             grant
             ,
             though
             one
             turnes
             Coat
             ,
          
           
             And
             writes
             now
             
               Contra
               ,
            
             that
             
               Pro
            
             wrote
             ,
          
           
             We
             do
             not
             take
             that
             much
             in
             snuff
             ,
          
           
             He
             's
             still
             o
             th'
             weakest
             ,
             
               Penne
               ,
            
             or
             
               Buffe
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             But
             what
             if
             
               VVill
            
             a
             censure
             made-a
          
           
             O'
             th'
             Poets
             ?
             he
             but
             did
             as
             
               Strada
               .
            
          
           
             So
             did
             old
             
               Ben
               ,
            
             our
             grand
             Wits
             master
             ,
          
           
             In
             this
             Play
             called
             
               Poetaster
               .
            
          
           
             The
             odds
             is
             ours
             ,
             we
             are
             the
             higher
             ,
          
           
             We
             are
             
               Knight
               Lauriat
               ,
               Ben
            
             the
             
               Squire
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Upon
             my
             conscience
             you
             wrong
          
           
             Out
             Knight
             ,
             that
             he
             should
             hate
             the
             Tongue
          
           
             Of
             either
             Author
             ,
             for
             't
             is
             sed
          
           
             Those
             Languages
             ne're
             hurt
             his
             head
             .
          
           
             You
             know
             full
             well
             the
             Latian
          
           
             Is
             routed
             in
             our
             Nation
             :
          
           
             And
             why
             such
             stir
             for
             heathen
             Greek
             ?
          
           
             Is
             't
             not
             enough
             brisk
             French
             to
             speak
             ?
          
           
             Italian
             brave
             ,
             my
             Signiora
             ,
          
           
             If
             sounds
             as
             high
             as
             you
             can
             rore
             a.
             
          
        
         
           
             He
             never
             miss'd
             at
             nose
             of
             
               Ovid
               ,
            
          
           
             But
             lov'd
             the
             nose
             so
             well
             approved
          
           
           
             Of
             the
             Court-Ladies
             .
             Handy, dandy
             ,
          
           
             They
             both
             were
             spoyl'd
             by
             Art
             
               D'Amandi
               :
            
          
           
             You
             think
             they
             feign
             ,
             that
             is
             ,
             they
             lie
             ,
          
           
             That
             spake
             of
             
               Gondibert
            
             so
             high
             .
          
           
             If
             that
             their
             Verses
             were
             much
             taller
             ,
          
           
             
               Waller
            
             hath
             since
             out-Gondid
             
               VValler
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Why
             do
             you
             bite
             ,
             you
             men
             of
             Fangs
             ?
          
           
             (
             That
             is
             ,
             of
             Teeth
             that
             forward
             hangs
             )
          
           
             And
             charge
             my
             dear
             
               Ephestion
            
          
           
             With
             want
             of
             Meat
             ?
             you
             want
             Digestion
             .
          
           
             We
             Poets
             use
             not
             so
             to
             do
             ,
          
           
             To
             find
             men
             Meat
             ,
             and
             Stomachs
             too
             .
          
        
         
           
             That
             is
             a
             good
             capacity
             ,
          
           
             If
             you
             want
             that
             the
             more
             's
             the
             pity
             .
          
           
             You
             have
             the
             Book
             ▪
             you
             have
             the
             House
             ,
          
           
             And
             mumme
             (
             good
             
               Iack
            
             )
             and
             catch
             the
             Mouse
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Knight
             's
             return'd
             ,
             your
             censures
             vanish
             ,
          
           
             And
             takes
             no
             Dungus
             ,
             but
             good
             Spanish
             .
          
        
         
           The
           Author
           doth
           not
           put
           in
           
             Mun
             —
          
           because
           it
           is
           the
           abreviation
           ,
           or
           nick
           of
           his
           own
           name
           .
        
         
           
             Now
             with
             
               Virginia
            
             twit's
             no
             more
             .
          
           
             The
             Slaves
             are
             dead
             ,
             we
             do
             deplore
             :
          
           
             And
             leave
             I
             pray
             ,
             your
             fierce
             Bravados
             ,
          
           
             Slife
             you
             will
             end
             else
             in
             
               Barbados
               .
            
          
        
      
       
       
         
           
             To
             Sir
          
           William
           D'avenant
           .
        
         
           
             AFter
             so
             many
             poorer
             scraps
          
           
             Of
             Playes
             ,
             which
             nere
             had
             the
             mishaps
             ,
          
           
             To
             passe
             the
             Stage
             without
             their
             claps
             .
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             When
             thou
             hadst
             past
             the
             Pikes
             ,
             and
             wert
          
           
             Thy self
             a
             royall
             
               Gondibert
               ,
            
          
           
             A
             Soldate
             ,
             then
             a
             Statesman
             pert
             .
          
        
         
           
             3.
             
          
           
             There
             so
             improv'd
             ,
             and
             grown
             so
             able
             ,
          
           
             
             Thou'rt
             fit
             for
             War
             ,
             or
             Council-table
             ,
          
           
             Could'st
             thou
             be
             brought
             to
             penne
             a
             Fable
             ?
          
        
         
           
             4.
             
          
           
             Could
             (
             Knight
             )
             thy
             emerited
             fancy
             ,
          
           
             After
             so
             high
             dispatch
             beyond-sea
             ,
          
           
             Stoop
             to
             contrive
             this
             rare
             Romancy
             ?
          
        
         
           
             5.
             
          
           
             Which
             all
             Romances
             must
             adore
             ,
          
           
             
               Arcadia
            
             bow
             ,
             and
             
               Eglamore
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             all
             since
             written
             ,
             and
             before
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             6.
             
          
           
             Thy
             first
             penn'd
             
               Albovin
            
             must
             lie
             ,
          
           
             Forgotten
             in
             his
             
               Lumbardy
               ,
            
          
           
             For
             
               Gondibert
            
             is
             onely
             high
             .
          
        
         
           
             7.
             
          
           
             This
             
               Gondibert
               ,
            
             and
             so
             the
             Author
             ,
          
           
             Is
             lik'd
             by
             King
             ,
             and
             by
             King's
             daughter
             ,
          
           
             It
             makes
             them
             serious
             ,
             and
             makes
             laughter
             .
          
        
         
           
             8.
             
          
           
             He
             that
             hath
             swing'd
             the
             Prince
             of
             
               Condi
               ,
            
          
           
             And
             beat
             him
             to
             a
             hole
             ,
             like
             
               Lundie
               ,
            
          
           
             (
             Better
             imployment
             send
             him
             one
             day
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             9.
             
          
           
             When
             that
             he
             's
             weary
             of
             the
             Launce
             ,
          
           
             And
             hunting
             Rebels
             out
             of
             France
             ,
          
           
             In
             
               Gondibert
            
             his
             thoughts
             advance
             .
          
        
         
           
             10.
             
          
           
             And
             sighs
             ,
             perchance
             ,
             with
             watry
             sluces
             ,
          
           
             To
             see
             the
             Red-rose
             serve
             the
             Luces
             ,
          
           
             But
             (
             
               Will
            
             )
             the
             world
             is
             all
             abuses
             .
          
        
         
           
             11.
             
          
           
             
             Thou'rt
             read
             translated
             in
             French
             Court
             ,
          
           
             The
             Divel
             himself
             doth
             well
             report
             ,
          
           
             All
             but
             these
             Quiblers
             thank
             thee
             for
             't
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             12.
             
          
           
             When
             Princes
             Battel
             joyn
             ,
             and
             hurt
             ,
          
           
             Are
             farre
             remov'd
             from
             friends
             at
             Court
             ,
          
           
             Their
             Chirurgion
             then
             is
             
               Gondibert
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             13.
             
          
           
             A
             leaf
             of
             thee
             but
             read
             ,
             will
             stench
          
           
             The
             blood
             as
             well
             as
             any
             French
          
           
             Chi'rgion
             ,
             or
             Chirurgion's
             wench
             .
          
        
         
           
             14.
             
          
           
             Here
             Ladies
             may
             a
             simpling
             go
             ,
          
           
             
               Iohnson
               ,
               Gerrard
            
             do
             not
             shew
          
           
             A
             greater
             Betany
             to
             view
             .
          
        
         
           
             15.
             
          
           
             Translate
             no
             longer
             for
             our
             
               Leahs
               ,
            
          
           
             (
             Good
             
               Peppers
            
             )
             our
             
               Pharmacopaeas
               ,
            
          
           
             Of
             Herbals
             here
             's
             the
             prime
             Ideas
             .
          
        
         
           
             16.
             
          
           
             Thou
             art
             the
             publique
             
               Icon
               mornm
               ,
            
          
           
             The
             Ladies
             lay
             the
             Book
             before
             um
             ,
          
           
             And
             
               Polexander's
            
             not
             o'
             th'
             
               Quorum
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             17.
             
          
           
             Before
             they
             treat
             a
             Lord
             ,
             a
             part
          
           
             Of
             thee
             is
             read
             ,
             or
             got
             by
             heart
             ,
          
           
             They
             'r
             catechis'd
             in
             
               Gondibert
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             18.
             
          
           
             And
             if
             they
             lose
             the
             Virgin-name
             ,
          
           
             They
             onely
             say
             in
             joyfull
             shame
             ,
          
           
             Sweet
             
               Gondibert
            
             thou
             wert
             to
             blame
             .
          
        
         
           
             19.
             
          
           
             Their
             paines
             and
             throwes
             in
             this
             do
             please
             ,
          
           
             When
             that
             in
             Parsley-bed
             it
             sees
             .
          
           
             
               Bully-Gondibertiades
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             20.
             
          
           
             Then
             let
             these
             Rimers
             now
             approve
             ,
          
           
             And
             say
             thou
             art
             their
             lash
             above
             .
          
           
             
               Princes
               fight
               by
               thee
               ,
            
             and
             Queens
             love
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Upon
           the
           continuation
           of
           
             Gondibert
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               OVid
            
             to
             
               Patmos
            
             pris'ner
             sent
             ,
          
           
             His
             Book
             to
             
               Rome
            
             without
             him
             went
             :
          
           
             And
             though
             that
             
               D'avenant
            
             was
             confin'd
             ,
          
           
             The
             world
             to
             
               Gondibert
            
             was
             kind
             ;
          
           
             And
             by
             his
             worth
             so
             pleaded
             we
             ,
          
           
             See
             
               Gondibert
            
             set
             
               D'avenant
            
             free
             .
          
           
             The
             power
             that
             laid
             the
             man
             by
             
             th'heeles
             ,
          
           
             Took
             bayle
             of
             's
             feet
             for
             all
             the
             ills
             .
          
           
             His
             
               Habeas
               Corpus
            
             now
             is
             granted
             ;
          
           
             (
             Prethee
             no
             more
             of
             a
             nose
             scanted
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             And
             why
             good
             Knight
             are
             we
             severe
             ,
          
           
             Because
             we
             would
             the
             Stages
             cleare
          
           
             Of
             Gods
             invoak'd
             ;
             and
             
               Pegasus
               ?
            
          
           
             Abuse
             us
             still
             good
             Poet
             thus
             .
          
           
             How
             gallant
             
               Massey
            
             grown
             of
             late
             ,
          
           
             As
             if
             the
             man
             were
             
               Massey-plate
               ?
            
          
        
         
           
             But
             how
             could
             ever
             
               Gyges
            
             ring
             ,
          
           
             Have
             hoysted
             
               Davenant
            
             on
             the
             wing
             ,
          
           
             When
             that
             the
             ring
             did
             not
             convey
             ,
          
           
             But
             keep
             invisible
             ,
             we
             say
             ,
          
           
             The
             person
             on
             the
             place
             ,
             't
             is
             worse
             ,
          
           
             The
             rings
             mistook
             for
             
               Pacolets
            
             horse
             .
          
        
         
           
             He
             lay
             not
             there
             ,
             no
             not
             an
             houre
             ,
          
           
             No
             sooner
             was
             thy
             work
             at
             
               Tower
               ,
            
          
           
           
             But
             
               Davenant
            
             was
             releas'd
             ,
             we
             know
             it
             ,
          
           
             The
             man
             was
             pardon'd
             for
             the
             Poet
             .
          
           
             But
             how
             comes
             
               Daphne
            
             in
             ?
             It
             followes
             ,
          
           
             
               Daphnes
            
             are
             alwayes
             neere
             
               Apollos
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             The
             Muses
             ,
             we
             know
             are
             such
          
           
             The
             Tower
             can't
             hold
             ,
             but
             that
             do's
             much
             .
          
           
             Nay
             the
             
               Muse
            
             holds
             our
             Muses
             now
             ,
          
           
             Scarce
             your
             prime
             Wit
             can
             scape
             ;
             yet
             how
             ,
          
           
             I
             le
             tell
             you
             ,
             may
             be
             safe
             from
             danger
             ,
          
           
             Write
             as
             you
             doe
             
               sans
            
             wit
             in
             anger
             .
          
        
         
           
             Friend
             ,
             If
             you
             have
             indeed
             abus'd
             ,
          
           
             
               Homer
            
             and
             
               Virgil
            
             as
             accus'd
             ,
          
           
             Let
             these
             withdraw
             the
             action
             ,
          
           
             And
             make
             them
             satisfaction
             ,
          
           
             (
             For
             
               Gondibert
               ,
            
             I
             nere
             did
             see
             ;
          
           
             The
             Book
             ,
             my
             friends
             ,
             too
             dear
             for
             me
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             How
             come
             you
             now
             to
             offend
             the
             
               Bard
            
          
           
             Of
             lofty
             fame
             ,
             and
             name
             full
             hard
             ?
          
           
             Bold
             Britaines
             ,
             they
             ,
             and
             won't
             indure
             ,
          
           
             But
             my
             Lord
             
               Bard
            
             is
             for
             thee
             sure
             .
          
           
             Let
             all
             the
             mountaines
             meet
             upon
             't
             ,
          
           
             They
             'l
             yeild
             to
             
               Bard
            
             and
             
               Bellamont
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             I
             thought
             that
             Nose
             must
             be
             i'
             th'
             Verse
             ,
          
           
             Though
             i'
             th'
             fag
             end
             ,
             i'
             th'
             very
             A
             —
             .
          
           
           
             Wash
             thee
             in
             Avon
             ,
             if
             thou
             flie
             ,
          
           
             My
             wary
             
               Davenant
            
             so
             high
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             
               Hypernaso
            
             now
             you
             shall
          
           
             O're-fly
             this
             Goose
             so
             Capitall
             .
          
        
         
           
             Your
             colours
             will
             not
             hold
             the
             rather
             ,
          
           
             Expung'd
             by
             one
             that
             drinks
             of
             neither
             :
          
           
             
               And
               yet
               no
               kin
               to
            
             John
             Taylor
             :
          
        
      
       
         
           The
           Author
           upon
           himself
           .
        
         
           
             FAlse
             as
             foolish
             !
             What
             turn
             
               felo
               de
               me
               ?
            
          
           
             
               Davenant
            
             kill
             
               Davenant
               ?
            
          
           
             No
             ,
             the
             whole
             world
             doth
             see
          
           
             My
             
               Gondibert
               ,
            
          
           
             To
             be
             a
             piece
             of
             Art
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Waller
            
             and
             
               Cowley
            
             true
             have
             prais'd
             my
             book
             ,
          
           
             And
             deservedly
             ,
          
           
             Nay
             I
             did
             for
             it
             look
             ;
          
           
             He
             both
             us
             robbs
             ,
          
           
             That
             blames
             for
             
               this
            
             old
             
               Hobs.
               
            
          
        
         
           
             Write
             on
             (
             jeer'd
             
               Will
            
             )
             and
             write
             in
             Pantofle
             ,
          
           
             That
             's
             over
             Pumpho
             ,
          
           
             And
             for
             
               Will
               Crofts
            
             his
             baffle
             ,
          
           
             Thou
             maist
             long
             write
             ,
          
           
             That
             wri●'st
             to
             them
             that
             shite
             .
          
           
             Knight
             hold
             
               thy
            
             nose
             at
             this
             .
          
           
             One
             
               Tetrastich
            
             to
             wipe
             his
             
               versifyer
               ▪
            
          
        
         
         
           
             Met
             at
             the
             Common
             shoar
             ,
             thee
             &
             
               Will
               Crofts
               ,
            
          
           
             I
             send
             you
             
               Ieffery
            
             to
             cleanse
             what
             's
             soft
             :
          
           
             Be
             it
             in
             head
             ,
             can't
             he
             poor
             dwarf
             assaile
             ,
          
           
             But
             he
             will
             reach
             ,
             to
             whip
             you
             in
             the
             taile
             .
          
        
         
           
             Room
             ,
             room
             for
             a
             leather
             flinger
             ,
          
           
             Pretends
             to
             be
             a
             triple
             singer
             ,
          
           
             On
             three
             feet
             ,
             or
             to
             a
             third
             finger
             .
          
        
         
           
             Who
             can
             Sufficiently
             prepare
             'um
          
           
             'Gainst
             men
             of
             
               trium
               literarum
               ?
            
          
           
             who
             'l
             fall
             like
             those
             that
             rose
             at
             
               Sarū
               ▪
            
          
        
         
           
             1.
             
          
           
             In
             triple
             rimes
             I
             thank
             a
             Kater
             ,
          
           
             Who
             writes
             as
             if
             he
             were
             my
             Mater
             ,
          
           
             But
             proves
             a
             most
             
               Fraterrimus
               Frater
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             You
             erre
             my
             Cautious
             friend
             in
             Planets
             ,
          
           
             As
             in
             abusing
             of
             my
             Sonnets
             .
          
           
             The
             Swanns
             above
             ,
             Geese
             vaile
             your
             Bonnets
             .
          
        
         
           
             3.
             
          
           
             'T
             is
             right
             (
             you
             say
             )
             't
             was
             hard
             in
             France
             ,
          
           
             Ten
             pound
             for
             a
             good
             work
             t'
             advance
             ,
          
           
             You
             got
             it
             friend
             ,
             (
             but
             for
             a
             dance
             .
             )
          
        
         
           
             4.
             
          
           
             What
             like
             thy selfe
             ,
             still
             souc'd
             in
             Ale
             ,
          
           
             Abhorring
             all
             that
             's
             sharp
             and
             stale
             ?
          
           
             You
             'l
             find
             me
             salt
             both
             head
             and
             taile
             .
          
        
         
           Indors'd
           
             Tih-he
             ,
          
           and
           seal'd
           with
           the
           caelature
           of
           the
           four-tassel'd
           Cap.
           
        
      
       
       
         
           Upon
           fighting
           
             Will
             .
          
        
         
           
             MUst
             all
             be
             Fighters
             that
             do
             follow
             Camps
             ,
          
           
             It
             was
             not
             so
             ,
             my
             friends
             ,
             not
             at
             
               Ea'Tamps
               .
            
          
           
             He
             that
             bought
             Armes
             ,
             and
             boldly
             cross'd
             the
             Maine
          
           
             Did
             honour
             ,
             sure
             ,
             in
             that
             adventure
             gain
             .
          
           
             Who
             deserves
             most
             ,
             the
             man
             that
             is
             well
             bang'd
          
           
             For
             King
             ?
             or
             he
             that
             ventures
             to
             be
             hang'd
             ?
          
        
         
           
             Now
             Impudence
             ,
             thou
             'rt
             up
             with
             old
             disgrace
             ,
          
           
             Better
             to
             want
             some
             nose
             ,
             than
             want
             a
             face
             .
          
           
             
               Caro
               de
               carne
            
             mine
             is
             still
             as
             't
             was
             ,
          
           
             When
             thine
             of
             flesh
             is
             batter'd
             into
             brasse
             .
          
           
             Where
             Kings
             have
             favour'd
             do
             not
             thou
             blaspheme
             ,
          
           
             I
             onely
             do
             amand
             that
             Sacred
             Theme
             .
          
        
         
           
             
               Will
               ,
            
             like
             a
             Basilisk
             ,
             did
             ride
             and
             flie
             ,
          
           
             And
             like
             a
             
               Regulus
               ,
            
             bold
             
               Will
            
             will
             die
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           In
           Pugnacem
           Daphnem
           .
           Num
           Latin
           —
           as
           hîc
           ?
        
         
           
             PEr
             mare
             ,
             per
             terras
             ,
             Regi
             obsequiosus
             aravi
             ,
          
           
             Neptunus
             ceduces
             ,
             Arma
             verumque
             vehit
             .
          
           
             Belgia
             me
             sensit
             ,
             retuli
             unde
             ipse
             Leones
             .
          
           
             Sensit
             Bombardus
             Anglica
             terra
             meus
             .
          
           
             Hinc
             ordo
             (
             nam
             gaudet
             equo
             Neptunus
             )
             equestris
             ,
          
           
             Et
             poterat
             Parmum
             nobilitare
             Leo
             .
          
           
             Scilicet
             —
             —
             &
             verus
             Campi
             Basiliscus
             ad
             ibam
             ,
          
           
             Bombardet
             genus
             ah
             tum
             Basiliscus
             erat
             .
          
           
             Test
             is
             abest
             Fateor
             ,
             jam
             Functo
             feste
             Meipso
             ,
          
           
             Calcar
             adest
             tamen
             ,
             &
             Fama
             superstes
             erit
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Ad
           eundem
           ,
           
             Law
             Case
             .
          
        
         
           
             Leye
             ulpianum
             inter
             Io
             :
             Oakum
             vel
             Quercenū
             &
          
           
             Io
             :
             Novi
             stili
             .
             ff.
             ff.
             ff.
             ff.
             tit.
             De
             abluendo
          
           
             Cerebro
             parag.
             Tuenim
             ,
             vel
             Codrus
             .
          
        
         
           
             Crambe
             bis
             repetitae
             nolo
             reponere
             Scribe
             nova
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           In
           Daphnen
           Causidicum
           .
        
         
           
             ALl
             are
             not
             Martyr-Soldiers
             ,
             blood
             &
             goar
             ,
          
           
             To
             will
             to
             fight
             is
             Soldier-confessor
             ,
          
           
             And
             does
             defie
             his
             sawcy
             hand
             and
             pen
             ,
          
           
             That
             saies
             he
             ere
             turn'd
             back
             to
             any
             men
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Nose
             again
             !
             ô
             how
             they
             plunge
             that
             scoff
             !
          
           
             If
             
             th'ad
             been
             whole
             ;
             they
             would
             have
             rubb'd
             it
             off
             .
          
           
             A
             little
             man
             ,
             a
             man
             you
             may
             suppose
             ,
          
           
             As
             much
             in
             justice
             to
             a
             (
             little
             )
             Nose
             .
          
           
             For
             ,
             with
             the
             honour'd
             remnant
             that
             he
             beares
          
           
             We
             take
             in
             snuff
             ,
             these
             often
             crambed
             jeeres
             ,
          
           
             I
             le
             give
             you
             (
             Pokins
             )
             leave
             to
             be
             nasute
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             enough
             for
             us
             to
             be
             acute
             .
          
           
             And
             'cause
             I
             will
             in
             equity
             dispose
             ,
          
           
             You
             shall
             
               Ana
            
             —
             eares
             unto
             your
             nose
             .
          
        
         
           
             The
             Poet
             is
             angry
             ,
             because
             censur'd
             by
             one
             he
             knowes
             not
             .
          
        
         
           
             Some
             men
             have
             known
             some
             man
             ,
             some
             men
             before
             :
          
           
             Ha
             well
             done
             
               Iack
               ,
            
             't
             was
             like
             be
             seen
             no
             more
             .
          
           
             'T
             is
             special
             to
             be
             known
             ,
             not
             know
             agen
             .
          
           
             But
             prethee
             tell
             ,
             who
             was
             
               Iack
               Pudding
            
             then
             ?
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Titulus
           Compitis
           
             Londini
          
           cum
           Licentia
           imponendus
           .
        
         
           Quid
           dignum
           tanto
           feret
           hic
           promissor
           hiatu
           ?
        
         
           QUantum
           ad
           Epistolae
           sonum
           videtur
           esse
           exhibitoris
           Tumulorum
           apud
           
             Westmonasteriū
             ,
          
           adeo
           illi
           digitus
           Mercurialis
           ,
           &
           vox
           Stentoria
           ,
           quid
           ni
           rude
           Donati●s
           !
           Tune
           Monstrorum
           remonstrator
           .
           Monumentis
           ipsis
           statua
           major
           es
           ,
           &
           praeter
           teipsum
           (
           id
           est
           )
           magistrum
           spectaculorum
           grandius
           monstrum
           nulla
           aetas
           iterum
           videbit
           :
           Quid
           Castrum
           Backsterianum
           nominas
           ?
           abi
           ad
           ripam
           ,
           &
           cum
           simiâ
           (
           Die
           quolibet
           Iovis
           )
           te
           ostenta
           .
           Tune
           Elephantos
           ,
           Tigridasque
           loqueris
           ?
           Cedunt
           miracula
           ,
           Asinus
           locutus
           est
           .
        
         
           Suscitasti
           (
           stipes
           )
           Cetum
           pro
           naribus
           sales
           ,
           ignem
           sulphur
           evomentem
           :
           
             Abite
             Pelamides
             .
          
           (
           Ne
           forte
           non
           intelligeretur
           vocabulum
           )
           
             Anglice
             ,
             (
             Plaise-mouth'd
             fellowes
             .
             )
          
        
         
           Adest
           Leviathan
           sed
           Hobbianus
           ,
           non
           Hobgoblianus
           .
        
         
           Americae
           datum
           13.
           mense
           Anni
           Platonici
           .
           1666.
           
           Anno
           Bestiae
           .
           Bis
           Tibi
           vale
           .
        
      
       
       
         
           Upon
           the
           Author
           .
        
         
           
             
               Daphne
            
             secure
             of
             the
             buff
             ,
          
           
             Prethee
             laugh
             ,
          
           
             Yet
             at
             these
             four
             ,
             and
             their
             riff
             raff
             :
          
           
             Who
             can
             hold
             ,
          
           
             When
             so
             bold
             ?
          
           
             And
             the
             trim
             wit
             of
             
               Coopers
            
             green
             hill
             ,
          
           
             Should
             piss
             now
             in
             every
             commō
             squirters
             quill
             ,
          
           
             And
             his
             old
             prais'd
             Fancies
             kill
             ,
          
           
             
               Denham
            
             thou'lt
             be
             shrewdly
             shent
             ,
          
           
             To
             invent
          
           
             Such
             Drawlery
             for
             merriment
             ;
          
           
             And
             tak'st
             a
             heart
          
           
             To
             bear
             a
             part
             ,
          
           
             With
             three
             of
             most
             unequal
             pitiful
             fire
             ,
          
           
             Not
             fit
             to
             be
             enter'd
             in
             the
             grave
             Wit-quire
             ,
          
           
             A
             drawing
             
               Donne
            
             out
             of
             the
             mire
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Canto
           the
           second
           ,
           or
           rather
           Cento
           the
           first
           .
        
         
           
             ALl
             in
             the
             Land
             of
             
               Bembo
               ,
            
             and
             of
             
               Bubb
               ,
            
          
           
             
               Frank
               Harris
            
             help
             me
             ,
             on
             this
             pocky
             rub
             .
          
           
             How
             shall
             we
             doe
             now
             Jack
             a
             doggs
             is
             dead
          
           
             To
             get
             
               Tom
               Coriat
               decent
            
             buried
             .
          
           
             T
             is
             fit
             the
             man
             that
             Travell'd
             had
             so
             much
             ,
          
           
             And
             rode
             a
             stride
             the
             vessell
             in
             High
             Dutch
             .
          
           
           
             Should
             have
             a
             place
             to
             lay
             his
             head
             ,
             if
             he
          
           
             Were
             but
             dead
             drunk
             ,
             as
             he
             was
             us'd
             to
             be
             .
          
           
             Is
             there
             no
             Art
             ho
             ?
             nor
             Commencement
             nigh
             ?
          
           
             Mutton
             I
             smell
             ,
             Vacation
             Pullets
             ply
             ,
          
           
             Toward
             
               Trumpington
               ,
            
             and
             
               Shottover
               ,
            
             a
             hill
             ,
          
           
             Neer
             
               Bellosyte
               ,
            
             hath
             at
             each
             end
             a
             Mill
             .
          
           
             But
             what
             news
             from
             
               America
               ?
            
             Dost
             hold
             ,
          
           
             We
             shall
             have
             both
             our
             pockets
             full
             of
             Gold
             ,
          
           
             To
             buy
             us
             Turke-pies
             ,
             alas
             't
             is
             hot
             ;
          
           
             Good
             
               Iack
            
             supply
             the
             Club
             ,
             and
             give's
             a
             Pot.
             
          
        
         
           
             Does
             not
             that
             Gentleman
             upon
             the
             Bench
          
           
             Love
             Smoak
             nor
             Sack
             ?
             then
             let
             him
             have
             a
             Wench
             .
          
           
             All
             palates
             pleas'd
             ,
             a
             Scot
             will
             eat
             no
             Swine
             ,
          
           
             Men
             will
             eat
             men
             ,
             Reckabites
             drinke
             no
             Wine
             .
          
           
             Hey
             day
             !
             &
             where
             are
             we
             ?
             what
             all-a-mort
             ?
          
           
             I
             thought
             we
             had
             been
             jeering
             
               Gondibert
               .
            
          
           
             What
             is
             all
             this
             ?
             protest
             't
             is
             wondrous
             good
             ,
          
           
             But
             better
             it
             were
             farre
             ,
             if
             understood
             .
          
        
         
           
             Now
             't
             is
             as
             plain
             as
             nose
             not
             in
             my
             face
             ,
          
           
             When
             that
             I
             rose
             from
             stool
             ,
             I
             lost
             my
             place
             .
          
           
             Then
             face
             about
             ,
             or
             in
             more
             homely
             geere
             ,
          
           
             Noses
             revert
             ,
             be
             where
             your
             Arses
             were
             .
          
           
             '
             Uds
             Fish
             and
             Egs
             !
             that
             is
             no
             swearing
             yet
             ,
          
           
             What
             shall
             we
             do
             ?
             we
             'r
             in
             a
             deadly
             sweat
             .
          
           
           
             We
             have
             got
             
               In
               Ano
            
             Feavor
             .
             Good
             Kings
             Daughter
          
           
             Set
             on
             a
             Posnet
             ,
             make
             some
             Parley-water
             :
          
           
             Or
             ,
             if
             you
             please
             ,
             Panada
             make
             in
             skellit
             ;
          
           
             Let
             not
             men
             of
             nose
             come
             near
             ,
             they
             'l
             smell
             it
             .
          
        
         
           
             And
             let
             it
             boyle
             three
             pints
             unto
             a
             half
             ,
          
           
             Then
             let
             it
             coole
             ,
             and
             give
             't
             a
             
               Durham
            
             Calf
             ;
          
           
             Or
             these
             
               Calabrian
            
             Swine
             ,
             or
             
               Padan
            
             Goats
             ,
          
           
             But
             be
             ye
             sure
             (
             sweet
             Princess
             )
             of
             your
             Coats
             :
          
           
             O
             tie
             'um
             up
             behind
             ,
             or
             skewit
             tuck
             'um
             ,
          
           
             For
             fear
             these
             Lads
             from
             off
             your
             Buttocks
             pluck
             'um
          
           
             O
             arm
             your self
             ,
             for
             they
             're
             adventrous
             fellows
             ,
          
           
             And
             commonly
             stav'd
             off
             with
             Tongs
             or
             Bellows
             .
          
           
             Or
             break
             their
             heads
             with
             some
             good
             Cherry-stone
             ,
          
           
             'T
             will
             beat
             them
             off
             the
             pit
             ,
             't
             is
             ten
             to
             one
             .
          
           
             Though
             they
             be
             cruel
             Cockers
             ,
             strike
             ,
             they
             're
             marr'd
             ,
          
           
             And
             will
             run
             out
             ,
             and
             not
             a
             man
             die
             hard
             .
          
           
             But
             if
             they
             should
             hold
             ,
             
               Astrayon
            
             has
             
               Clyster
               ,
            
          
           
             But
             pray
             what
             he
             with
             Owl
             upon
             his
             fist
             here
             ?
          
           
             O
             't
             is
             a
             present
             to
             be
             shar'd
             'twixt
             four
             !
          
           
             The
             Jesses
             and
             the
             Hood
             to
             two
             ,
             no
             more
             :
          
           
             The
             Eyes
             and
             Beak
             to
             two
             —
             't
             is
             fit
             .
             This
             have
             we
          
           
             For
             our
             old
             Fustian
             ,
             your
             new-made
             
               Poll-Davie
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Thus
             farre
             out
             of
             our
             wits
             ,
             now
             let
             's
             be
             in
             our
             senses
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             1.
             
          
           
             The
             Sun
             was
             sunk
             into
             the
             watry
             lap
          
           
             Of
             her
             commands
             the
             waves
             ,
             and
             weary
             there
             ,
          
           
             Of
             his
             long
             journey
             ,
             took
             a
             pleasing
             nap
          
           
             To
             ease
             his
             each
             daies
             travels
             all
             the
             year
             .
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             
               Zanthus
            
             is
             safely
             said
             forrage
             to
             yeild
             ,
          
           
             For
             his
             bright
             Coursers
             with
             their
             flaming
             hoofs
             ,
          
           
             (
             No
             ,
             no
             ,
             
               Elisium
            
             is
             too
             bare
             a
             field
             )
          
           
             They
             quarter
             where
             they
             run
             ,
             in
             the
             same
             roofs
             .
          
        
         
           
             3.
             
          
           
             Yet
             do
             they
             seem
             to
             rest
             ,
             that
             is
             ,
             are
             fled
             ,
          
           
             From
             
             th'inclosure
             of
             our
             Hemisphere
             ;
          
           
             And
             to
             be
             down
             ,
             we
             say
             ,
             is
             gone
             to
             bed
             ,
          
           
             But
             they
             do
             lie
             ,
             in
             truth
             ,
             we
             know
             not
             where
             .
          
        
         
           
             4.
             
          
           
             When
             
               Gondibert
            
             and
             
               Birtha
            
             joyn'd
             that
             night
             ,
          
           
             And
             reap'd
             the
             pleasure
             of
             expectant
             Brides
             .
          
           
             They
             did
             not
             sleep
             ,
             nor
             would
             they
             ,
             if
             they
             might
             ,
          
           
             But
             kept
             the
             Ephialtes
             from
             her
             strides
             .
          
        
         
         
           
             5.
             
          
           
             Forbear
             to
             speak
             the
             rest
             ,
             the
             modest
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             Did
             shake
             to
             think
             what
             then
             was
             got
             &
             lost
             ;
          
           
             The
             Curtaines
             blush'd
             ,
             that
             is
             ,
             were
             very
             red
             ,
          
           
             While
             she
             was
             thaw'd
             ,
             that
             still
             that
             night
             was
             frost
             .
          
        
         
           
             6.
             
          
           
             Old
             
               Astragon
               ,
            
             as
             Fathers
             gladly
             use
             ,
          
           
             A
             Caudle
             brought
             next
             morning
             early
             ,
          
           
             And
             joy'd
             his
             daughter
             ,
             but
             she
             could
             not
             choose
          
           
             But
             snob
             ,
             and
             made
             it
             richer
             ,
             that
             is
             ,
             Pearly
             .
          
        
         
           
             7.
             
          
           
             Not
             that
             she
             wept
             'cause
             she
             had
             chang'd
             her
             name
             ,
          
           
             But
             teares
             ,
             you
             know
             with
             them
             ,
             are
             too
             too
             common
             .
          
           
             It
             was
             to
             think
             what
             time
             
             sh'had
             lost
             ,
             &
             blames
          
           
             Her self
             ;
             she
             had
             no
             sooner
             put
             on
             Woman
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             am
             beholding
             ,
             but
             not
             to
             this
             D.
             
               Donne
            
             for
             that
             .
          
        
         
           
             Stout
             
               Gnodibert
            
             grown
             stiffer
             by
             those
             teares
             ,
          
           
             For
             she
             imbrac'd
             the
             Man
             ,
             that
             invers'd
             Tree
             ,
          
           
             So
             that
             for
             certain
             he
             nere
             hung
             his
             eares
             ,
          
           
             But
             thrash'd
             ,
             and
             took
             for
             a
             Walnut
             ,
             
               Birtha
            
             she
             .
          
           
             Where
             is
             the
             Fustian
             and
             the
             Bombast
             ?
          
           
             In
             your
             own
             Doublets
             ,
             sure
             compleat
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           To
           
             Daphne
          
           on
           his
           incomparable
           (
           and
           by
           the
           Critick
           incomprehended
           )
           Poem
           ,
           
             Gondibert
             .
          
        
         
           
             CHear
             up
             dear
             friend
             ,
             a
             
               Laureat
            
             thou
             must
             be
             ,
          
           
             Nay
             ,
             in
             this
             name
             entituled
             to
             the
             Tree
             .
          
           
             Gather
             (
             you
             Infant-wits
             )
             loose
             Bayes
             from
             hence
             ,
          
           
             And
             weare
             it
             when
             you
             write
             like
             him
             ,
             high
             sense
             .
          
           
             
               Homer
            
             would
             wish
             his
             eyes
             again
             ,
             to
             see
          
           
             To
             mend
             his
             Verses
             by
             thy
             Poetry
             .
          
           
             Nor
             would
             the
             
               Chesher
               ,
            
             and
             smooth
             
               Mantuan
               ,
            
          
           
             Deny
             the
             praises
             of
             so
             brave
             a
             Man
             .
          
           
             Rather
             if
             living
             ,
             he
             would
             
               D'avenant
            
             sing
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             alternate
             muse
             thy
             merit
             ring
             .
          
           
             
               Ovid
            
             would
             be
             so
             far
             from
             minde
             of
             those
             ,
          
           
             (
             That
             he
             would
             gladly
             lend
             thee
             part
             of
             's
             nose
             ,
          
           
             Sad
             of
             thy
             least
             Defect
             )
             and
             spight
             of
             us
             ,
          
           
             For
             thee
             would
             write
             a
             new
             
               De
               Tristibus
               .
            
          
           
             
               Tasso
            
             and
             
               Petrach
               ,
            
             and
             his
             
               Laura
            
             too
             ,
          
           
             Will
             throw
             off
             Modesty
             ,
             and
             the
             Bayes
             wooe
             .
          
           
             
               Apollo
            
             call
             a
             Counsell
             ,
             make
             an
             Act
             ,
          
           
             And
             let
             their
             Verses
             with
             the
             Cords
             be
             packt
             .
          
           
             And
             their
             4
             names
             be
             plac●t
             ,
             but
             never
             higher
             ,
          
           
             On
             the
             4
             
               Toms
               ,
            
             of
             which
             the
             
               Club
            
             is
             
               Squire
               .
            
          
           
             Whilst
             thou
             whale
             
               Gondibert
            
             shalt
             feast
             ,
             thy
             dish
             ,
          
           
             Such
             as
             these
             ,
             shabs
             ,
             shruks
             ,
             sea
             calfs
             ,
             &
             sword
             fish
             .
          
           
             Let
             the
             whole
             shoale
             of
             lesser
             Pamphlets
             swim
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             Wit-frye
             .
             Secur'd
             alone
             in
             him
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           An
           Essay
           in
           explanation
           to
           Mr.
           
             Hobbs
             ,
          
           &c.
           Canter
           .
           the
           
             2d
             
             .
          
        
         
           
             1.
             
          
           
             ILl
             Men
             and
             Poets
             ,
             are
             by
             number
             known
             ,
          
           
             Fit
             to
             consume
             (
             qd
             .
             he
             )
             both
             Corn
             &
             Wine
             ;
          
           
             Then
             judge
             which
             is
             the
             bad
             ,
             her
             's
             four
             for
             one
             ,
          
           
             Foul
             play
             in
             verse
             my
             friends
             .
             But
             give
             um
             line
             .
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             O
             hopefull
             
               Inigo
               ,
            
             towardly
             old
             man
             ,
          
           
             That
             know'st
             so
             much
             ,
             that
             
               Daphne
            
             nere
             knew
             letter
             ,
          
           
             
               Oxford
            
             him
             bred
             ,
             
               Paris
            
             brought
             up
             .
             Who
             can
             ?
          
           
             (
             And
             the
             Globe
             clapt
             his
             Playes
             ;
             )
             who
             can
             do
             better
             ?
          
        
         
           
             3.
             
          
           
             Rime
             ,
             feet
             of
             Reason
             ,
             was
             his
             studied
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Rimes
             that
             are
             grasp'd
             by
             you
             in
             Divels
             claw
             .
          
           
             Rimes
             
               Lycambaean
               ,
            
             full
             of
             Salt
             and
             Tart
             —
          
           
             Tar
             that
             will
             burn
             the
             fingers
             ,
             shirt
             and
             straw
             .
          
        
         
           
             4.
             
          
           
             To
             sublime
             Reason
             ,
             Nature's
             inmate
             ,
             Art
             ,
          
           
             Did
             Rimes
             as
             Varnish
             to
             her
             house
             devise
             ,
          
           
             Rubbish
             lies
             under
             the
             rar'd
             plaister-part
             ,
          
           
             That
             is
             rough
             reason
             couch'd
             ,
             
               but
               not
               to
               th'
               wise
               .
            
          
        
         
         
           
             5.
             
          
           
             Now
             since
             the
             Law
             must
             clear
             both
             us
             and
             you
             ,
          
           
             Your
             
               neck
               ▪
               verses
            
             perchance
             y'
             have
             had
             already
             ,
          
           
             For
             the
             first
             faults
             ,
             you
             know
             we
             hang
             but
             few
             ;
          
           
             Then
             take
             the
             book
             &
             read
             &
             
               old
               Nick
               speed
               ye
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         
           
             On
          
           Gondibert
           .
        
         
           
             CLap
             on
             thy
             Close-stoole
             apted
             for
             A
             —
          
           
             Upon
             thy
             head
             ,
             &
             march
             a
             rare
             mock
             
               Mars
               .
            
          
           
             How
             strong
             the
             Poet
             smells
             ?
             good
             Sir
             impart
             ;
          
           
             Did
             you
             not
             slice
             at
             name
             of
             
               Gondibert
               ?
            
          
           
             With
             your
             own
             verses
             clense
             your
             tripe
             :
          
           
             (
             A
             proper
             taile-clout
             )
             wipe
             for
             wipe
             .
          
        
      
       
         
           Cockle-de-moys
           for
           the
           Poets
           Hot-cockles
           .
        
         
           
             HOt-cockles
             are
             but
             childrens
             toyes
             ,
          
           
             No
             more
             ,
             my
             friends
             ,
             are
             
               Cockle-de moys
               .
            
          
           
             We
             'le
             play
             at
             both
             ;
             but
             who
             shall
             lie
             ?
          
           
             Recant
             and
             Poem
             late
             wrote
             high
             ,
          
           
             Amount
             unto
             a
             Book
             .
             Lie
             faire
             you
             ,
          
           
             As
             
               you
               did
               lately
               ,
            
             and
             I
             le
             spare
             you
             .
          
           
             Reach
             me
             a
             
               Ferula
               ,
            
             perhaps
          
           
             The
             
               clawing
            
             hand
             slights
             our
             fist-claps
             .
          
        
         
           
             For
             wearing
             Buff
             ,
             but
             never
             fighting
             ,
          
           
             Fouling
             Paper
             in
             the
             writing
          
           
             For
             whatsoere
             y'
             have
             
               donne
            
             be
             —
             .
          
           
           
             Smell
             to
             my
             hand
             Sir
             ,
             what
             ,
             so
             coy
             ?
          
           
             Close
             ,
             't
             is
             best
             a
             Cocle-de-moy
             .
          
           
             Come
             
               Donne
               ,
            
             come
             neerer
             with
             your
             nose
             ;
          
           
             How
             nice
             ?
             't
             is
             but
             to
             pluck
             a
             Rose
             .
          
           
             Better
             do
             thus
             ,
             then
             go
             to
             th'
             Crowes
             .
          
           
             Has
             
               Denham
            
             smelt
             ?
             He
             's
             very
             ill
             ;
          
           
             Let
             him
             be
             breath'd
             on
             
               Cooper's
            
             hill
             .
          
           
             Draw
             neer
             (
             you
             fourth
             Rhinoceros
             )
          
           
             This
             for
             your
             Verses
             and
             your
             Prose
             .
          
           
             While
             it
             was
             made
             ,
             I
             chanc'd
             to
             whistle
             ,
          
           
             That
             take
             too
             ,
             for
             your
             learned
             Epistle
             .
          
           
             If
             Mr
             Sheriff
             your
             Wits
             did
             stir
             up
             :
          
           
             That
             is
             two
             scruples
             more
             of
             Syrup
             .
          
        
         
           
             In
             Physick
             I
             le
             requite
             your
             pains
             ,
          
           
             And
             thank
             you
             all
             my
             K
             ▪
             in
             grains
             .
          
           
             If
             
               Astragon
            
             hath
             not
             enough
             ,
          
           
             
               Tantablin
            
             shall
             afford
             you
             stuff
             .
          
        
         
           What
           's
           here
           ,
           Church
           
             Gradus
          
           without
           Organs
           ?
           
             Blomesbury
             ,
          
           S.
           
             Katharine's
          
           ,
           
             Covent
             ,
             cum
             Finsbury
          
           Garden
           ,
           
             Canon
             ,
          
           no
           
             Christ-Church
             ,
             Venery
             Bangher
             ,
             Aclap
             .
          
        
         
           
             Epithites
             that
             will
             serve
             foure
          
           
             Appellative
             ,
             and
             four
             proper
             Nouns
             ,
             or
             more
             .
          
           
             Drolling
             ,
             Insipid
             ,
             Sarcustick
             ,
             Damned
             ,
             Heroick
             ,
          
           
             Lumbery
             ,
             Bombasted
             ,
             Fustian
             ,
             Hauty
             ,
             Pecking
             .
          
        
      
       
       
         
           Upon
           the
           Authors
           writing
           his
           name
           ,
           as
           in
           the
           Title
           of
           the
           Booke
           ,
           
             D'Avenant
             .
          
        
         
           
             1.
             
          
           
             YOur
             Wits
             have
             further
             ,
             than
             you
             rode
             ,
          
           
             You
             needed
             not
             to
             have
             gone
             abroad
             .
          
           
             
               D'avenant
            
             from
             
               Avon
               ,
            
             comes
             ,
          
           
             Rivers
             are
             still
             the
             Muses
             Rooms
             .
          
           
             
               Dort
               ,
            
             knows
             our
             name
             ,
             no
             more
             Durt
             on
             't
             ;
          
           
             An
             't
             be
             but
             for
             that
             
               D'avenant
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
          
           
             And
             when
             such
             people
             are
             restor'd
             ,
          
           
             (
             A
             thing
             belov'd
             by
             none
             that
             whor'd
             )
          
           
             My
             noches
             then
             may
             not
             appeare
             ,
          
           
             The
             gift
             of
             healing
             will
             be
             neer
             .
          
        
         
           
             Meane
             while
             I
             le
             seeke
             some
             
               Panax
            
             (
             salve
             of
             Clowns
             )
          
           
             Shall
             heal
             the
             wanton
             Issues
             ,
             and
             crackt
             Crowns
             .
          
        
         
           
             I
             will
             conclude
             ,
             Farewell
             Wit
             Squirty
             
               Fegos
            
          
           
             And
             drolling
             gasmen
             
               Wal-Den-De-Donne-Dego
               .
            
          
        
      
       
         FINIS
         .
      
    
    

