THE Poet's Blind man's bough, OR Have among you my blind Harpers:  
BEING A pretty medicine to cure the Dim, Double, Envious, Partial, and Diabolical eyesight and judgement OF Those Dogmatic, Schismatical, Enigmatical, and now Gramaticall Authors who Lycentiously, without either Name, Licence, Wit or Charity, have railingly, falsely, and foolishly written a numerous rabble of pesteferous Pamphelets in this present (and the precedent year, justly observed and charitably censured,  
By Martin Parker.  
Printed at London by F. Lea●h, for Henry Marsh, and are to be sold at his shop over against the golden Lion Tavern in Prince's street. 1641.   

TO THE TRULY JUDICIOUS, IMPARTIAL CHARITABLE, AND IMPREIUDICATED CHRIstian Reader of what quality, age or sex soever, the Author dedicates his poor endeavours and refers himself with the same.  

1.  
RIigh Honourable, Worshípfull, and right  
judicious Chrian Readers be content,  
Kindly t'accept what (to give all delight,  
And vindicate myself) I did invent,  
For to no other end this time I spent  
But in this small compendium to frame  
Something thae's short and true; Liars to shame.   

2.  
here's matter both for modesty and sport,  
With charitable reprehentions for  
Those who have filled both Country, City, Court  
And Camp with libels void of reason, or  
The fear of Heaven (who doth such things abhor)  
Buy, Read, and judge, then questionless you'll say,  
That I have shown fair (for their base) foul play   

3.  
Still I hope good men will contented be,  
With what is Published by (abused) M. P.  
Who never wrote but in the Just defence,  
Of's King and Country; now's own innocence.    

THE POET'S BLIND MAN'S BOUGH.  
COme Niminsis lend me little twig,  
Though these delinquents faults are very big,  
Yet I (though much exasperared) will  
Mix mercy with revenge; do good for ill.  
My work may now be termed a demi Satir,  
My muse hates Railing, as she Scorns to Flatter,  
Though justice hold her scales with equal poise,  
Charity sways the beam; she none destroyse,  
Some she will check, and tell them of their deeds,  
From which rebuke if happily proceeds,  
Any amendment, she'll be like the nurse,  
That whips a child whom she loves ne'er the worse,  
Should I but give them their deserved due,  
Whom though I know not that most shameless crew  
Ofn melesse Authers, Authors all of lies,  
Of slanderous Pasquil's railing falicies,  
I might my pen dip in that learnean Sink,  
Which the infernal furies use for ink,  
Or with jambean rhymes Ironical,  
Make lines should serve for ropes to hang them all  
But no such cruelty is in my breast,  
All my abuses I can take in jest,  
And give such Idiots leave to write or speak.  
eagle's sleight notice take when crows do creak  
You cankers of the state, nay rather you.  
Vulture's; when law and death have said their due,  
Do even gnaw the heart of him that's dead,  
In this regard  not be truly so said,  
That you are Pluto's fiddlers; that for pay,  
Upon the guts o'th' dead do play and pray,  
Presumptuous, Petulant, flagitious, dolts dost,  
Untrue, unserviceable, unbacked coats,  
Durst you beyond the letter of the Law,  
Presume among yourselves to hang and draw  
You do assume the place, to say the troth,  
Of Aprehender, judge, and hangman both,  
When any hath offended 'gainst the state  
Must such as you the fact exaggerate,  
Have you such clear eyes that you can esp'y,  
The little moat that's in your brother's eye,  
Making a mountain of each molehill when  
You do not see the beams (O senseless men)  
That in your own eyes so prevents your Sight  
And judgement that you dare (be't wrong or right)  
Save or condemn at pleasure; can your pates,  
Determine more than Law or Magistrates,  
Of these your facts he who will censure best,  
Cannot but say that you intent to wrest,  
The sword of justice from the hand of them  
To whom ti's due by justice to condemn,  
Or save with mercy; heaven forbidden I should,  
Excuse the faults of those whom Law doth hold,  
Worthy of punishment, or death, or bonds,  
My very Soul most aptly Coresponds,  
With this; and so it ever shall that those,  
Whom Law doth prove my King or countries' foes,  
That they have their demerits, cursed be him,  
(For my part) that where justice doth condemn,  
Will wish to save; especially Such men,  
Whose deeds deserves worse than a vulgar pen.  
Upon them can confer; yet (take my word)  
More danger comes bith'quill then by the Sword,  
Let those delinquents of the higher strain,  
Alone with what is said; and now again,  
My muse returns unto her task: which is  
To tell these Libelers what deep abuse,  
Of hellish skill,  sounded to compose,  
Such fond invectives both in rhyme and prose.  
Nay come along never shrink or blush for shame,  
Their none knows either of you by your name;  
Those you were 'sham'd to show, there's reason for't,  
Lest after ages a deserved sport  
Might make of you (or your posterity,)  
Vnnam'd the Author's sh●me with's lines will die.  
But my desire and whole intent is that,  
Your folly being in general aimed at  
Each on may take his share of shame and say,  
In doing this I have not showed fair play:  
For what is either more or less set forth  
'gainst persons in particular; what worth  
Or same among the vulgar it may win  
Without the Authors name't hath ever been  
Held as a Libel both in Law and sense,  
Then he who writes (what  be his pretence)  
His name should justify what he hath done,  
This maxim I have always thought upon  
What ever yet was published by me,  
Was known by Martin Parker, or M.P.  
All Poets (as addition to their sames)  
Have by their Works eternised their names,  
As Chaucer, Spencer, and that noble earl,  
Of Surriet ought it the most precious pearl,  
That dicked his honour, to Subscribe to what  
His high engenue ever amed at  
Sidney and Shaksspire, Drayton, Withers and  
Renowned jonson glory of our Land:  
Deker, Learned Chapman, Haywood althought good,  
To have their names in public understood,  
And that sweet Seraph of our Nation, Quarles  
(In spite of each planatick cur that snarls)  
Subscribes to his Celestial harmony,  
While Angels chant his Dulcet melody.  
And honest john from the water to the land  
Makes us all know and honour him by's hand;  
And many more whose names I should have told  
In their due place, in famous record inrould.  
Have thought it honest honour to set down  
Their names or letters to what is their own:  
But you a litter of blind whelps begot  
By Cerberus, the scum of nature's pot,  
Suborned by malice and a little gains,  
Invent and publish what your frothy brains,  
Envaporate some prose and some in rhymes,  
Only to please the fancy of the times  
Idle Chemeras, structurs seeming fair,  
Which viewed, are proved mere castles in the air.  
Almanac Makers, were they of your mind,  
(In stead of Saints to every day a signed)  
Might make a transmutation, and name all  
By your quotiadian Pamphlets critical,  
And days canicular should last all th' year,  
If curish writers they may domineer;  
The Press is overpressed, and (justly) groans  
Under the burden of those heavy tones  
Of Scritch-oule music, threatening death and hell,  
One striving all in malice to excel;  
And he who can best rail, scoff, and invent,  
The greatest lies, shall give the most content:  
Is this the age that doth most truth profess,  
Are these the days of zeal and righteousness;  
Are these the times that hath more light discovered  
Revealing secrets that in darkness erred  
Why then, O why are lies and falshhoods spread,  
Shall men by lying earn their daily bread:  
Shall truth thus suffer paper persecution,  
Shall things well ordered hazard a confusion  
By those unsanctified pens which writ  
Nothing but what to mischief may incite,  
Inventing still the theory of plots  
Which none to practice ever thought these sots  
Bewray their folly; for they want both wit  
And judgement, for their fables do not fit  
The last of probability, which should,  
Produce such reasons for the tale that's told,  
That they who hear it may conjecture that  
It may be true; but these men care not what  
They writ, be't contradictory or not,  
So they can get the silver by the plot;  
But (as friends) I friendly them advise,  
That if hereafter they writ any lies  
Let them mote likely be then that which was  
Composed by some short haired, long eared Ass,  
Of a strange plot (beyond imagination  
To give the Archbishop his free relaxation  
Out of the Tower by Necromantic spells,  
Themselves did only know it, but none else.  
Note how that ancient liar (most accursed,)  
A liar even from the very first  
Beginning of the world, by's instruments,  
With subtlety men's judgements circumvents,  
Making the fabric of his building all  
Of lies, which fools esteem Authentical;  
Yet power divine so boundeth him and his,  
That of there envious aims they often miss,  
Shaming themselves (by over reaching) so,  
That even to fools, their shame they freely sho,  
As well appears in this imagined plot,  
Making the world believe that which was not  
Had such a thing (being 'twas known a fiction,  
And might at hom expect a contradiction)  
Been feigned to be in Cornwall or in Wales,  
Cumberland, or Yorkshire; then such tales  
Perhaps might win belief; but here i'the city  
Where every child of eight years old that's witty,  
Knows there was no such thing, oh what disgrace  
Is this tothth' Author durst he show his face,  
Or set his name tothth' fable, stay there sir,  
we'll not be known so palpably to oer;  
The aim the Author shot at is to bring  
Papists in hatred; 'tis a pious thing.  
But tell me brother (how orby what chance)  
Cam'st thou to play on people's ignorance,  
Thinkest thou the worlds all wild and all men mad,  
That they'll condemn those whom thou countest bad,  
Hath not the Honourable Parliament,  
(That hopeful Senate) wisdom to prevent,  
Such machinations (if there any were)  
But who must dictate to them, dost not fear,  
Future examinations for such crimes  
Or dost thou mean ever to trust these times:  
What is th'archbishop to the Papists that  
They should adventure life and frrtune at  
So dear a rate, he never was their friend,  
Arminians never did on Room depend;  
'tis known apparently what sad report,  
Papists may give the High commission Court;  
'Twas high indeed for them, two high a rate  
Poor men did pay: which might exact a hate  
Rather than love; but charity says not,  
Let law take place, 'tis fit it should be so,  
Heaven grant his Grace from the well spring of grace,  
And that he may return while he hath space  
Unto the thrown of grace; by penitence,  
Let us not aggravate what's his offence:  
Nor while I'm speaking of th'archbishop's case,  
Let me examine that malicious base,  
And senseless Libel Mercury's Message named,  
Whom the Author to recognize was ashamed.  
And well he might, for amongst his lies unholy  
One thing ath' first doth most bewray his folly,  
And that's the Cronagram which he to make  
Upon th' Archbishops name doth undertake;  
And by the numegall letters there express  
He would denote the number of the beast  
Mentioned in the Apocalypses which is,  
Six hundred sixty six, now censure his,  
Deduction and doubt not but you'll find  
(As I have done) the beast lay's beastly mind,  
How like a monstrous beast 'twixt dog and ass  
He enviously and simply doth pass,  
His verdiction the man, for thus writes he  
'Tis WILL: LAWD,  
Two V's he numbers ten I one, three Ls,  
Seven score and ten, (thus he his lesson speles)  
V for five more, D for five hundred, thus  
He makes six hundred sixty sixth, let us  
Confess 'tis true so fare, but to condemn  
The Prisoner, he omits both I and M,  
Which is the name, and makes the number even,  
One thousand six hundred sixty seven.  
See now this envious Cynic, how to win,  
Credit 'mongst fools commits a deadly sin,  
For surely malice was predominant.  
Nor can I think the fool so Ignorant;  
As that he would or could assume to frame;  
A Chronagram and knew not the right name,  
Or else his spite was so tothth' Bishops that,  
He would deprive him o'th' most part of what,  
His Godfather did give him at the Font.  
Is this your calculation, out upon't;  
But should this envious Author undertake,  
A Chronagram or Anagram to make;  
For any one of whom he is a lover,  
Were't an unlerned Translator or a Glover;  
A Currier or a Weaver, than no doubt,  
Rather than he would leave letter out,  
he'd venture to exchange or else to add,  
So he could make a good sense of a bad:  
He would (perhaps) But M. In the N's place,  
To make it answer to the year of grace.  
But the Archbishop (whom few now applaud)  
Must be contented to be called Will Laud.  
But one thing I much marvel at; which is,  
That he who answered it, with th' cimphasis,  
Of wit and sense; who stoutly did defend,  
the archbishop as his Champion and true friend,  
Exacting praise from some, from others blame,  
Yet never censured this false chronagram  
Which negligence and monstrous overfight,  
Extenuats his credit who did write,  
That Vindication; passed as the rest,  
Without the Author's name: though it is guest,  
That Thomas Herbert wrote it, but that fame,  
Rose from th'acrostic known to be his name,  
Written by him ath' end o'th' book, that's all,  
The reason which indeed's irationall.  
For no man that's the author of a book  
But sets his name whereon all easily look  
Upon the frontispiece (or title page)  
Unless he be preposterous (like the age,)  
But let that pass; for I must pass from this  
To other things, wherein are more amiss;  
More malice; more absurdity, and more  
Nonsense than any mentioned before,  
A plot discovered of an army good,  
Secretly lurking in a private wood.  
If any such be in Northhamptonshire  
Where Soldiers, all unknown to th' neighbours near  
Can lie in ambush such a multitude,  
And be maintained with quotidian-food,  
With other necessaries fit for men  
Let any of indifferent judgement scan  
Each circumstance of this pretended plot,  
And they will find the Author out a Sot:  
One that so fare beyond all disability  
Doth stretch his lies (which shows his imbiscility)  
That even to children he bewrays his shame,  
One man's the Author of both plots, his name 
john Thomas.   
I since have understood, who on no ground  
But his pesteferous fancy to confound,  
Those who ne'er meant him harm  
That this his poisonous venom spits a broad,  
Bewraying envy, Ignorance, and spleen  
And all in vain, for not one in fifteen  
Gives credit to's narrations; and those few,  
That are so confident to think all tru●,  
Are some whose judgements are p●●●●●●cated  
With malice; people so consop●…  
In mischief; must by ignorance that they  
Believe what any one can write or say,  
So't be 'gainst those whom they do affect  
But any of well governed intellect  
(Whose judgements are with reason regulated)  
Will say of Knave and fool naught can be bated,  
So let him rest till heaven turn his heart,  
To mix more charity with his small art,  
That he and all the rest o'th' Pamphletees,  
May use more fervent prayers, and fewer jeers,  
To practise truth (which all of them pretend,  
And not their precious time so lewdly spend  
In sowing tears of Schismie and debate,  
By devilish means falsehood to propagate;  
Shaming themselves, not whom they seek to shame,  
Blaming of other people, when the blame  
Upon their own heads justly may be laid  
I do admire that they are not afraid,  
Of divine judgement which on them might fall,  
When against conscience and law rational,  
They do invent such execrable lies,  
To make men odious in the people's eyes,  
Contrary to all charity, and grace  
Making their fond Chemeras to take place,  
In stead of solid truth, these are the men  
Who make a show of zeal, and conscience when  
Their deeds and writings 'gainst the public weal  
Prove they have neither conscience, truth nor zeal;  
Charity bids us pray one for another,  
But brother here vituperates his brother:  
But why (may some men say) should this man be  
The only Censurer; could none but he  
Espy these 〈◊〉 must he be the only man  
The works 〈…〉 men to search and scan,  
Yes reader whosoev'r thou be I this  
Must tell thee freely, there good reason is  
For what is done or to be done, and more  
Than charity will suffer; which in store,  
The author ever keeps to regulate  
His words and deeds 'gainst all who do him hate,  
For he 'bove all the rest hath wronged been  
Tasting the bitter gall of hellish spleen,  
Which these malignant serpents could eiect  
To make the world his innocence suspect,  
In divers pamphlets, what e'er currish barker  
The author was, he snarled at Martin Parter.  
Nor Borealist by some brother pen,  
Yet fathered on asect to this end,  
To bring me in disgrace; as though I had,  
Been punished heretofore for writing bad,  
Calling me th'prelates Poet and such terms,  
Which nothing but his spite at all confirms,  
For I ne'er wrote i'th' Bishop's cause so much,  
As now I have on this occasion touch.  
Another foolish idle defamation  
That is entitled the Popish Proclamation,  
The unnamed Author (as in all a railer)  
Occasion takes to abuse me and john Tailor  
With Herbert, but wherefore I cannot tell,  
Nor he himself that wrote it very well;  
For he one whom though his will were bend,  
Wanteth ability for his intent:  
And yet he could in his bare garden stuff,  
(Which with Tobaco I do take in snuff)  
Take liberty to name me in his jeers,  
But in his works such plain nonsense appears,  
That I accout his pen to be no slander,  
From true method he so fare doth wander,  
That all who read may judge (if they have wit)  
That what he writes although his name's to it,  
Deserves no approbation; yet this lad  
I malice not, but rather should be glad,  
To know him change his envy for more skill  
He can'ot disgrace me, writing what he will.  
Thus much for him, and indeed all the rest  
To none I am angry an enemy protest,  
But wish them more good than themselves will do,  
I will be patiented and Physician too.  
FINIS.   

Postscript.  
PErhaps the Reader may expect I should,  
More of these slaunderus, envious sleights unfold,  
Because they more deserve; indeed 'tis true  
Writ what I can I shan't give them their due:  
This little therefore serveth for a taste,  
By which more may be guest there's too much waste  
Of paper made already, in two years:  
By these calumnious idle pamphleteeres,  
Should this diurnal Lavish, two years more  
Continue; we may fear (there's cause wherefore)  
That we should scarce get paper for good use,  
If we persevere in this great abuse,  
I have but broke the Ice, some coadiuters  
Will help to scourge these paper-persecuters.  
FINIS.