A Reply as true as steel, To a Rusty, railing, Ridiculous, Lying libel; which was lately written by an impudent unsodered Ironmonger and called by the name of An Answer to a foolish Pamphlet entitled, A swarm of Secta●ies and schismatics. By John Taylour.  
The devil is hard bound and did hardly strain,  
To shit a libeler a knave in grain.  
Printed Anno Dom 1641.   

A Reply as true as steel, To a rusty, Railng, Ridiculous, Lying libel.  
What Dogs infernal Snaps and Snarleth thus?  
(Begot by Tripleheaded Cerberus)  
No 'tis a pretty Puppy, with one head,  
A Red haired whelp, that can both Write and Read.  
Sprung from the devil and a mad Dun Cow,  
Nurse in a Dunghill where he sucked a sow,  
This amsterdamed cur, hath strange Libels flirted  
And much foul ink besquitterid and Besquirted  
That everywhere his Roguish Pamphlets flies  
That England's all embroidered o'er with lies.  
And late this cankered viperous hound of hell  
His toadlike malice did against me swell,  
And did a poisonous lying libel frame  
Against me, but durst never set his Name.  
An anagram Denominotes him well 
Look into the tenth line following, and there in Capital letters you shall find that these three wicked words are his Anagram.   
Three scurvy words, a KNAV, REVILER, hell,  
These show his name, his nature and his end  
(Except before he's hanged he means to mend.)  
For who is fitter for black hell to have  
Then a reviler and a railing Knave,  
And not to hold you in suspense much longer  
This fellow is a Quondam Iron-monger  
And now his copies changed, cracked Like a shell  
In Gracious street, doth graceless libels sell.  
If I would be an Idle babbling talker  
Perhaps I then should name him Henry WALLKER.  
But 'tis no matter, I'll a while forbear  
he'll hang himself if I should name him here;  
He in his title page, six times sets down  
My name, but never once, durst write his own  
And though his libel be one sheet (no more)  
And Prose and Verse the lines are but eightscore,  
Ye fifty of these Roguish lines (pray know it)  
He stole from FENNER, the dead Rimcing Poet.  
And yet the mongrel Dogg's wits was to seek  
That he was fain to pump Above a week.  
To answer me, but this reply was soon  
unwrit and writ in half an Afternon.  
And what sweet stuff his Giant muse brought forth  
Those that wi●l read may quickly know the worth.  
He lays about him bravely with his ink  
And taxes me with drabs and to much drink  
But those that know me well, do know me so  
That I to both those vices am a foe,  
But were I given to the venereal crime  
I would have seen his wife before this time,  
If he be jellious, he deserves for that  
To wear a fair Ox-feather in his Hat; 
The rascal says that I was invited to dinner, a● the Tower it is know I was a servant there 14. years.   
Th' Archbishop nor his men did me invite  
Nor for a meal did I the book indite  
For 'tis to sundry gentlemen well known  
That I did write that book three years agone.  
Let trencher knaves (like Walker) Scrape for scraps  
And with the snuffs of great-men rinse their chaps,  
No Bishops not in England living be  
That I have cause to thank for gifts to me.  
He that takes part with Rome, let him have Hell  
And there is room enough, there let him dwell:  
But though those lines may show sincerity  
Yet they are far from Christian charity,)  
I hate no person, (Layman, or Divine)  
Nor 'Gainst misguided souls do I repine,  
I hate men's crimes, nor do I love mine own,  
(And charity begins at home 'tis known)  
As men transgress, so punish the offender  
As men are men so men should pity tender;  
This shallow pated fool that rails and raves  
I pity him and all his brother knaves  
Sure if they had wit they would descry  
Good manners must not be Idolatry,  
That Popery is not rails, though too much railing  
Hath showed Rome's mingle mangle wrangling failing.  
Thou filthv fellow, dost thou make no odds  
Between a Stable and a House of Gods,  
I think the devil fears that doom's day's near  
And therefore he those adverse Sects doth rear  
And Buzzeth sundry forms of strange Religions  
That he may catch the most of them like Widgeons;  
For what a lamentable case is this  
When such mad fools (whom wisemen scorn and hiss)  
Dares take upon them to reform and teach  
Various Rell●gions, all beyond their reach.  
And this rare rascal, (in his zeal discreet)  
Went lately to the owl that's in King's street  
There was his Bible pawned (for what I pray)  
For one quart of Metheglin left to pay.  
Was not this Rogue raped with some spirit divine  
To pawn God's word for poor Welsh Muscadine.  
He talks of whipping, and of jails to me  
Of gallows, and things called pillory,  
And such odd whimsyes, which the Gentleman  
Doth hammer in his Perricranian,  
Yet late great-men of Government thought fit  
To clap him in the fleet with all his wit,  
And being thence released, he afterward  
Was kept in Wood-street-Counter with good guard  
For why it was a matter most unmeet  
His precisous Pamphlets should bestrow the street.  
And make some old men, that for got almost  
To ride a Horse, to ride each Pissing post,  
And all his patience could not be content  
To stay for order from the Parliament,  
I hold it manners to forbear a while  
Till that High Court our wrongs can reconcile  
To wait with patience, and with prayers desire  
That God that Blessed Senate would inspire  
With Grace, true wisdom, courage, saving health  
For heaven's Great-service, King and common wealth.  
But Master Walker and such Knaves as he  
To wait their leisures cannot quiet be:  
But they must libel rail, and keep a Rut,  
And (as they please their own ways out to cut,  
And like unmaunaged wild untoward jades  
Lay by their laudable and lawful Trades,  
And saucily to preach, prate, roar, and lie  
Against all order rule and decency;  
And all such as are not seditious  
To call them Papists, and idolatrous,  
As frogs and toads do breed from putrid slime  
So do these vermin feed upon men's crime  
Like Swine ith'mire, they love to wallow in  
The Sordid loathsome Excrements of Sin.  
And though offenders suffer worthily  
Yet will these varlet's malice never die,  
For though unhappy Strafford be struck dead  
They mount him up a cockhorse sans a head.  
And this most precious youth, with tongue and pen  
Is chief amongst the devils serving men,  
For with his serpent's tongue and poisoned breath  
He doth his worst to torture after death,  
And sure because thou canst do Ill so well  
Thou must expect to have thy hire in hell,  
This stinking Vermin (mounseir overthwart)  
Quite oposite to Nature, Law and Art,  
Holds it not fit he should be kept in awe  
Within the Rules and limmi●s of the Law,  
And therefore if the Law should bid him stand  
Then he would kneel, (contrary to command)  
And when to kneel, good manners holds it fit  
In opposi●ion he would stand or sit;  
For nothing his rebellious mind contents  
That is not mixed with disobedience  
A sister as she chanced to set her eye on  
The King's arms in the Church, the Rampant lion,  
She said his Priap moved unlawful motions  
Which did disturb and hinder her devotions,  
But when her husband came to be churchwarden  
He caused some forms of flowers from field or Garden  
Or sedge and flags, twixt the Beast legs be painted  
To hide his whim-wham, which her mind had tainted.  
This was done really, and 'tis no fable  
To prove it so I quickly can be able,  
And now thou poisoned pickthank pestilent  
That writ'st and Rimest so poor so violent  
Me think this my reply may answer thee,  
If not, thou'rt like to have no more of me  
I scorn and loath, that ere my pen or tongue  
Should write or speak to such a lump of dung;  
Yet thou, (well skilled in foolish impudence)  
'Gainst these retorting lines will take offence  
And with Mockado mouth and judgement Rash,  
And tongue of Saye, thou'lt say all is but trash,  
And that 'tis pity, I should thus disperse  
A business of such consequence in verse,  
Indeed, with thee it cannot stand for good  
Nor can it well by thee be understood,  
Thou hat'st the muses, yet dost love to muse  
In railing terms thy betters to abuse,  
Verse must have method, measure, order, feet,  
Proportion, cadence, weight and number, sweet  
But thou that hat'st good verse, and libels make  
Dost with the devil's cloven foot thy measure take  
And where thou hast no power thou dost deride  
(so will all Rogues that verse cannot abide)  
But let such know, that heaven bred Poetry  
Despiseth mundane poor fellicity,  
Nor for Vaust air will like a magpie Chatter,  
Or for the crumbs of greatness lie and flatter,  
I could write lines, (thou foul ill looking elf)  
Should make thee (in iambics) hang thyself,  
thou'rt foul within, and my sharp lancing quill  
Can make Incision, and with Art and skill  
Search deep for dead flesh and corroded Cores  
And from corruptions clear and cleanse thy sores.  
thou'rt almost gangrened, and I surely think  
No Balls●m's better than a poet's ink,  
My pen can lash detraction and I can  
Be valiantly bold, and wrong no man,  
But wherefore (like a Mountebank) do I  
Spend time and Ink upon such rascal fry  
As is this gadfly. 'Tis not sergeons' Art  
Can help him, it perhaps may make him smart.  
But he will be uncured, as he hath been  
Except he first be Cleansed and purged within:  
So, Walker, Walk Knave and more Roguery brew  
And farewell and be hanged, that's twice adieu.  
FINIS.