THE Incomparable POEM GONDIBERT, VINDICATED From the wit-combats OF Four ESQUIRES, Clinias, Dametas, Sancho, and Jack 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 (Famed 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-slaughter, here, Wit-murder.   

Of small acquaintance as e'er writ,  
I am only known unto thy wit;  
That's small enough, will Denham say,  
And Jack Donne swear, upon the day,  
When at the arraignment of the Wits,  
There spleen 'gainst D'avenant pasquils spits.   

There sits Jack Straw as eldest Bencher,  
And spends no money but his censure;  
He lays the Book, sets Sack and claret,  
And with his Quibbles doth pay for it.   

Not thy Book only, 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 sarcasms and your flirts;  
For if you play the cynic still,  
And bite so hard my Knighted Will,  
My Woodstreet Doctor, (not a Wooden)  
A sure dissecter, and a good one,  
With hand accustomed to knife keen,  
Shall quaintly firk away your Spleen.  
So that you shall not bite, nor rail,  
But like kind Puppies shake your tail.   

This may be Donne, for I have seen  
A Barker's, that's a cynics Spleen  
I'th' doctor's box. (Snarlers) 'tis true,  
The cur'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 show thy face (be't what it will)  
We'll push 'em 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 'tis 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 familiar sure are those  
We suffer to play with our nose,  
But chief at sharp with pin, or prickle:  
Yet these are straws, but straws 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 ne'er a pistol.  
Unless for Cases wide as Poulton's,  
Perchance each man may have Paul Coulton's.   

What, doth he baffle Hobbs the Nathan?  
Hook in, old boy, thy Levi-athan.  
The Wits they grant, though one turns Coat,  
And writes now Contra, that Pro wrote,  
We do not take that much in snuff,  
He's still o'th' weakest, pen, or buff.   

But what if will 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 Laureate, Ben the Squire.   

Upon my conscience you wrong  
Out Knight, that he should hate the Tongue  
Of either Author, for 'tis said  
Those Languages ne'er 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 roar a.   

He never missed at nose of Ovid,  
But loved the nose so well approved  
Of the Court-Ladies. Handy-dandy,  
They both were spoiled by Art D'Amandi:  
You think they feign, that is, they lie,  
That spoke of Gondibert so high.  
If that their Verses were much taller,  
Waller hath since out-Gondid Waller.   

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 mum (good Jack) and catch the Mouse.   

The Knight's returned, 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 twits no more.  
The Slaves are dead, we do deplore:  
And leave I pray, your fierce bravadoes,  
'Slife you will end else in Barbados.    

To Sir William D'avenant.  

AFter so many poorer scraps  
Of plays, which ne'er had the mishaps,  
To pass the Stage without their claps.   

2.  
When thou hadst past the Pikes, and wert  
Thyself a royal Gondibert,  
A Soldate, than a Statesman pert.   

3.  
There so improved, and grown so able,  
Thou'rt fit for War, or Council-table,  
Couldst thou be brought to pen 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 penned Albovin must lie,  
Forgotten in his Lombary,  
For Gondibert is only high.   

7.  
This Gondibert, and so the Author,  
Is liked by King, and by King's daughter,  
It makes them serious, and makes laughter.   

8.  
He that hath swinged the Prince of Condi,  
And beat him to a hole, like Lundie,  
(Better employment send him one day.)   

9  
When that he's weary of the lance,  
And hunting Rebels out of France,  
In Gondibert his thoughts advance.   

10.  
And sighs, perchance, with watery sluices,  
To see the Red-rose serve the Luce's,  
But (Will) the world is all abuses.   

11.  
Thou'rt read translated in French Court,  
The devil himself doth well report,  
All but these Quiblers thank thee for't.   

12.  
When Princes battle join, and hurt,  
Are far removed from friends at Court,  
Their chirurgeon 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,  
Johnson, Gerrard do not show  
A greater Betany to view.   

15.  
Translate no longer for our Leah's,  
(Good Peppers) our Pharmacopaeas',  
Of Herbals here's the prime Ideas.   

16.  
Thou art the public Icon mornm,  
The Ladies lay the Book before 'em,  
And Polexander's not o'th' Quorum.   

17.  
Before they treat a Lord, a part  
Of thee is read, or got by heart,  
They're catechised in Gondibert.   

18.  
And if they lose the Virgin-name,  
They only say in joyful shame,  
Sweet Gondibert thou wert to blame.   

19  
Their pains and throws in this do please,  
When that in Parsley-bed it sees.  
Bully-Gondibertiades.   

20.  
Then let these rhymers now approve,  
And say thou art their lash above.  
Prince's fight by thee, and Queen's love.    

Upon the continuation of Gondibert.  

OVid to Patmos prisoner sent,  
His Book to Rome without him went:  
And though that D'avenant was confined,  
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'heels,  
Took bail of's feet for all the ills.  
His Habeas Corpus now is granted;  
(Prithee no more of a nose scanted.)   

And why good Knight are we severe,  
Because we would the Stages clear  
Of Gods invoaked; 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 hoisted Davenant on the wing,  
When that the ring did not convey,  
But keep invisible, we say,  
The person on the place, 'tis worse,  
The rings mistook for Pacolets horse.   

He lay not there, no not an hour,  
No sooner was thy work at Tower,  
But Davenant was released, we know it,  
The man was pardoned for the Poet.  
But how comes Daphne in? It follows,  
Daphne's are always near Apollo's.   

The Muses, we know are such  
The Tower can't hold, but that does much.  
Nay the Muse holds our Muses now,  
Scarce your prime Wit can scape; yet how,  
I'll tell you, may be safe from danger,  
Write as you do sans wit in anger.   

Friend, If you have indeed abused,  
Homer and Virgil as accused,  
Let these withdraw the action,  
And make them satisfaction,  
(For Gondibert, I ne'er 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 Britain's, they, and won't endure,  
But my Lord Bard is for thee sure.  
Let all the mountains meet upon't,  
They'll yield 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 fly,  
My wary Davenant so high,  
Yet Hypernaso now you shall  
O'erfly this Goose so capital.   

Your colours will not hold the rather,  
Expunged 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 praised my book,  
And deservedly,  
Nay I did for it look;  
He both us robs,  
That blames for this old Hobs.   

Write on (Jeered Will) and write in Pantofle,  
That's over Pumpho,  
And for Will Crofts his baffle,  
Thou Mayst long write,  
That wri●'st to them that shit.  
Knight hold thy nose at this.  
One Tetrastich to wipe his versifyer▪   

Met at the Common shore, thee & Will Crofts,  
I send you Jeffery to cleanse what's soft:  
Be it in head, can't he poor dwarf assail,  
But he will reach, to whip you in the tail.   

Room, room for a leather flinger,  
Pretends to be a triple singer,  
On three feet, or to a third finger.   

Who can Sufficiently prepare 'em  
'Gainst men of trium literarum?  
Who'll fall like those that rose at Sarun▪   

1.  
In triple rhymes I thank a Kater,  
Who writes as if he were my Mater,  
But proves a most Fraterrimus Frater.   

2.  
You err my Cautious friend in Planets,  
As in abusing of my Sonnets.  
The swans above, Geese veil your Bonnets.   

3.  
'Tis right (you say) 'twas hard in France,  
Ten pound for a good work t'advance,  
You got it friend, (but for a dance.)   

4.  
What like thyself, still soused in Ale,  
Abhorring all that's sharp and stale?  
You'll find me salt both head and tail.   
Indorsed Tih-he, and sealed with the caelature of the four-tasseled 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 arms, and boldly crossed the Maine  
Did honour, sure, in that adventure gain.  
Who deserves most, the man that is well banged  
For King? or he that ventures to be hanged?   

Now Impudence, thou'rt up with old disgrace,  
Better to want some nose, than want a face.  
Caro de carne mine is still as 'twas,  
When thine of flesh is battered into brass.  
Where Kings have favoured do not thou blaspheme,  
I only do amand that Sacred Theme.   

Will, like a Basilisk, did ride and fly,  
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 quercenun &  
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 & gore,  
To will to fight is Soldier-confessor,  
And does defy his saucy hand and pen,  
That says he e'er turned back to any men.   

The Nose again! O how they plunge that scoff!  
If th've been whole; they would have rubbed it off.  
A little man, a man you may suppose,  
As much in justice to a (little) Nose.  
For, with the honoured remnant that he bears  
We take in snuff, these often crambed jeers,  
I'll 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— ears unto your nose.   
The Poet is angry, because censured by one he knows not.  

Some men have known some man, some men before:  
Ha well done Jack, 'twas like be seen no more.  
'Tis special to be known, not know again.  
But prithee tell, who was Jack Pudding then?    

Titulus Compitis Londini cum Licentia imponendus.  
Quid dignum tanto feret hic promissor hiatu?  
QUantum ad Epistolae sonum videtur esse exhibitoris Tumulorum apud westmonasterium, 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,  
Prithee laugh,  
Yet at these four, and their riff raff:  
Who can hold,  
When so bold?  
And the trim wit of Cooper's green hill,  
Should piss now in every common squirters' quill,  
And his old praised 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 entered in the grave Wit-quire,  
A drawing done 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 do now Jack a dogs is dead  
To get Tom Coriat decent buried.  
'tis fit the man that traveled had so much,  
And rode a stride the vessel in High Dutch.  
Should have a place to lay his head, if he  
Were but dead drunk, as he was used to be.  
Is there no Art ho? nor Commencement nigh?  
Mutton I smell, Vacation Pullets ply,  
Toward Trumpington, and Shottover, a hill,  
Near 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 'tis hot;  
Good Jack supply the Club, and gives a Pot.   

Does not that Gentleman upon the Bench  
Love Smoak nor Sack? then let him have a Wench.  
All palates pleased, a Scot will eat no Swine,  
Men will eat men, Reckabites drink no Wine.  
hay day! & where are we? what all-a-mort?  
I thought we had been jeering Gondibert.  
What is all this? protest 'tis wondrous good,  
But better it were far, if understood.   

Now 'tis 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 gear,  
Noses revert, be where your Arses were.  
'Uds Fish and eggs! that is no swearing yet,  
What shall we do? we're in a deadly sweat.  
We have got In Ano favour. Good King's 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'll smell it.   

And let it boil three pints unto a half,  
Then let it cool, and give't a Durham Calf;  
Or these Portuguese Swine, or Padan Goats,  
But be ye sure (sweet Princess) of your Coats:  
O tie 'em up behind, or skewit tuck 'em,  
For fear these Lads from off your Buttocks pluck 'em  
O arm yourself, for they're adventurous fellows,  
And commonly staved off with tongues or Bellows.  
Or break their heads with some good Cherry-stone,  
'Twill beat them off the pit, 'tis ten to one.  
Though they be cruel Cockers, strike, they're marred,  
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 'tis a present to be shared twixt four!  
The Jesses and the Hood to two, no more:  
The Eyes and Beak to two— 'tis fit. This have we  
For our old Fustian, your new-made Poll-Davie.   
Thus far out of our wits, now let's be in our senses.  

1.  
The Sun was sunk into the watery lap  
Of her commands the waves, and weary there,  
Of his long journey, took a pleasing nap  
To ease his each days travels all the year.   

2.  
Xanthus is safely said forage to yield,  
For his bright Coursers with their flaming hooves,  
(No, no, Elysium 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 joined that night,  
And reaped 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 curtains blushed, that is, were very red,  
While she was thawed, that still that night was frost.   

6.  
Old Astragon, as Fathers gladly use,  
A Caudle brought next morning early,  
And joyed his daughter, but she could not choose  
But snob, and made it richer, that is, Pearly.   

7.  
Not that she wept 'cause she had changed her name,  
But tears, you know with them, are too too common.  
It was to think what time sh''ve lost, & blames  
Herself; she had no sooner put on Woman.   
I am beholding, but not to this D. Donne for that.  

Stout Gnodibert grown stiffer by those tears,  
For she embraced the Man, that inversed Tree,  
So that for certain he ne'er hung his ears,  
But thrashed, and took for a Walnut, Birtha she.  
Where is the Fustian and the Bombast?  
In your own Doublets, sure complete.    

To Daphne on his incomparable (and by the critic incomprehended) Poem, Gondibert.  

Cheer up dear friend, a laureate thou must be,  
Nay, in this name entitled to the Tree.  
Gather (you Infant-wits) loose bays from hence,  
And wear 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 mind of those,  
(That he would gladly lend thee part of's nose,  
Sad of thy least Defect) and spite of us,  
For thee would write a new De Tristibus.  
Tasso and Petrarch, and his Laura too,  
Will throw off Modesty, and the bays woo.  
Apollo call a counsel, make an Act,  
And let their Verses with the Cords be packed.  
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 calves, & sword fish.  
Let the whole shoal of lesser Pamphlets swim,  
As the wit-fry. Secured 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 'em line.   

2.  
O hopeful Inigo, towardly old man,  
That know'st so much, that Daphne ne'er knew letter,  
Oxford him bred, Paris brought up. Who can?  
(And the Globe clapped his plays;) who can do better?   

3.  
Rhyme, feet of Reason, was his studied Art,  
Rhymes that are grasped by you in devil's claw.  
Rhymes Lycambaean, full of Salt and Tart—  
Tar that will burn the fingers, shirt and straw.   

4.  
To sublime Reason, Nature's inmate, Art,  
Did rhymes as Varnish to her house devise,  
Rubbish lies under the rared plaster-part,  
That is rough reason couched, 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-stool 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 cleanse your tripe:  
(A proper tail-clout) wipe for wipe.    

Cockle-de-moys for the poet's Hot-cockles.  

HOt-cockles are but children's toys,  
No more, my friends, are Cockle-de moys.  
We'll play at both; but who shall lie?  
Recant and Poem late wrote high,  
Amount unto a Book. Lie fair you,  
As you did lately, and I'll 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 whatsoever y'have done be—.  
Smell to my hand Sir, what, so coy?  
Close, 'tis best a Cocle-de-moy.  
Come Donne, come nearer with your nose;  
How nice? 'tis but to pluck a Rose.  
Better do thus, then go to th' crows.  
Has Denham smelled? He's very ill;  
Let him be breathed on Cooper's hill.  
Draw near (you fourth Rhinoceros)  
This for your Verses and your Prose.  
While it was made, I chanced 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 physic I'll 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. Katherine's, Covent, cum Finsbury Garden, Canon, no Christ-Church, Venery Bangher, Aclap.  

Epithets that will serve four  
Appellative, and four proper Nouns, or more.  
Drolling, Insipid, Sarcustick, Damned, heroic,  
Lumbery, Bombasted, Fustian, haughty, Pecking.    

Upon the Authors writing his name, as in the Title of the book, 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 muse's Rooms.  
Dort, knows our name, no more dirt on't;  
An't be but for that D'avenant.   

2.  
And when such people are restored,  
(A thing beloved by none that whored)  
My noches then may not appear,  
The gift of healing will be near.   

Mean while I'll seek some Panax (salve of Clowns)  
Shall heal the wanton Issues, and cracked Crowns.   

I will conclude, Farewell Wit Squirty Fegos  
And drolling gasmen Wal-Den-De-Donne-Dego.    
FINIS.