AQVA-MUSAE: OR, Cacafogo, Cacadaemon, CAPTAIN GEORGE WHITHER Wrung in the Withers. Being a short lashing Satire, wherein the Juggling Rebel is Compendiously-finely Firked and Jerked, for his late railing Pamphlet against the King and State, called CAMPO-MUSAE. Deus dabit his quoque Funem. By JOHN TAYLOR. Printed in the fourth Year of the Grand Rebellion. To the Dishonourable, Disworshipfull, Disloyal, and detestable the Rebels, of what Nation, Sex, Sect, Degree, Quality, Rank, Age, Function, or Condition whatsoever. BRave, Bold, Adventerors, and unmatchable Patrons, It was my chance (long since) to read a witty Pamphlet, Entitled, Pierce penniless his Supplication, It was Dedicated to the Devil, there were in it many Satirical true Jerks, Jybes, jests, and jeers, which reflected and trenched much upon the Grand Signior Sultan Satan's Reputation, which were much distasteful to his Infernal Hell-hood, with all the rest of his Members of that Lower House. In lmitation of that Supplication, dedicated to the Devil, I am bold to Dedicate this my Satirical Poem to you his dear Adopted Sons (the Rebels) not doubting, but you will Patronise it, and Reward the Writer, as your Father would have done Tom Nash, for his penniless Volume; I know that you have more Power than your Sire, and for State Policy, you have so fare gone beyond him, that he blushes for shame, to hear how the World laughs him to scorn, for being outstripped and overreached in his own Art, by his own Sons, Scholars, and Servants. He did once (saucily and foolishly) offer to give all the Kingdoms of the World, but you are better Husbands then to give Kingdoms, for you have done your best and worst to take Kingdoms and Principalities, you have sold Ireland, and the Lives and Estates of 100000 People there, and with the Moneys which you received from your Mongrel Merchant Adventurers for Irish Land, you have bought, or hired, Scottish Rebels on purpose to make an English Invasion. To effect which most unparalleled designs, your Pulpits, and Pamphlets have been most diligent and useful Aggravators and Propagators, amongst whom, and of which unnumbered Numberless, damnable Number▪ Captain George wither, is not to be accounted a small Fool; His Campo-Musae, doth declare the Gentleman's Loyalty with his Book, called, Britain's Remembrancer, (in the 8th and 9th Cantos) do show his Art in Adulation, and whosoever either hath read, or will or can read, understand and consider those his two Books, may palpably perceive the constancy of this Capricious Carpet Captain, and also discern what Spirit of Contradiction inspired his Muse. I have briefly Writ this my Satire as a gentle Reproof of his Perfidious unmannerly Mutability, wherein you may descry not only his Rebellious Legerdemain, but all his Maintainers, Patrons, Adorers, Admirers, and Rewarders, may see and be sorry for their Errors; He was a man that I have these 35 years loved and respected, because I thought him simply honest; But now his concealed hypocrisy is by himself discovered, I am bold to take leave of him in these following lines. AQVA-MUSAE. An Answer to WHITHER his CAMPO-MUSAE. HA', let me see, is that that Traitorous Thing, Whose Campo-Musae hath Reviled the King: Sure 'tis not he; yet like him much he looks That late composed such sin Confounding Books, In sharp Ramnusiaes' Pisle, his Pen he dipped And Briton's Great Abuses Whipped and Stripped, And in his Motto did with Brags declare That in himself all Virtue's perfect were. Art thou that wonder of the Universe Whose lines Heaven, Hell, and Through the World did Pierce, In Sixteen hundred twenty six, that year Thou Writ'st a Book (Britain's Remembrancer) And in that Book with Boasting Boldness, than Thou Vauntest thyself a Miracle of Men, For never Hippocrite did show more skill And Pend so Well, and yet intent so ill. In thy third Page, thou in that Preface sayest, That thou his Majesty's High favour Weighst And that thou hold'st His Grace more dear to thee And Precious, than thy very soul could be. Thy fourth Page Says, thy Muse Spews not Base Rhymes 'Gainst Public Persons (but to Lash the Times) Thou applie'st King David's Nine and Thirtieth Psalm His Storms of Griefs, his hidden fire, his Calm, All which Blasphemously thyself Appliest Unto thyself; And in Applying Liest. Thy ninth Page says, bad Tongues will set their stings Unjustly, on the Sacred names of Kings. Thy tenth Page truly doth the Truth Repeat, That the King sits in God Almighty's Seat. And thus (with Pharisaical Ostentation) Thou sayest Commission, (Calling, Revelation,) Were given thee from above, Reader, pray Note, How this Imposture late hath turned his Coat; View but his Campo M●sae, and Conser The words and Sense, with his Remembrancer, And wavering Lies and Lines (Black upon White) Shows railing Hypocrite, Hermaphrodite, Nor Male or Female, neither both or neither Much more Incongruent than flint and feather. Is this the Vulgar Vassals, Valiant George Whose Whilom Muse did oracles disgorge, Who was admired of every Man and Woman Of all sorts, from the Tinker to the Broomeman, Sure this cannot be he, And yet 'tis he, Then how (the Devil) can he thus changed be, Can he, that so much honesty professed (As if all honesty had been in's Breast) Can he be Metamorphosed to a Knave, And write and fight, his Sovereign to outbrave, Can his Lines Lie (that sweet Peace did desire) Yet stirs up Wars, to set the Realm on fire, All this is possible, all this is done, This is George wither, his own Mothers Son. Now he's great George a Horseback, (mounted high) Dares to affront, and Rail 'gainst Majesty, This is the George thus altered, thus all-turd Whose Satyrs Goose-quill is transformed t' asword, For whose sake, I protest it with my Pen, I never will trust Wall-eyd Jade again. Brave George, no George of Cappodocia, But famous George of Braggodocia, Ride on fierce George, until thy high desert By Transmutation, make thy Horse a Cart. What contraries doth thy mad Brains possess That with a Traitorous War doth Peace profess, That plays at fast, and lose, with handy dandy Makest Subjects 'gainst their Sovereign Bullets bandy, Much mischief in that double mind did lurk, And Hell itself, set that dam'd Muse a work. Was ever such vile fragment Rhyming Rags Patched up together with abusive Brags; That who so doth his Campo-Musae Read, Will judge the Devil did his Invention Led; Like to a jesuited subtle Fox, His Honest Writings but a Paradox: His Verities are false, his Errors true, Such Riffe Raffe hotch Potch, his sweet Muse doth Brew. How villainy doth cunningly deceive, And good and bad together interweave; He Prays, Inveighs, Commends, Contemns, Extols, Approves, Reproves, Loves, Scorns, Obeys, Controls, Admits, Commits, Omits, Permits, submits, Remits, and Limits, as his humour fits, Tossing his Sovereign's Honour to and fro, Even as his saucy Idle Brains do Crow, And with his Rhymes doth Knaves and Fools inspire To blow the bellows of Rebellious fire. Hell never Spewed worse villains than are those That weekly (weakly) Rail in Rhyme and Prose, 'Mongst which accursed Crew, a part thou Bear'st, And in the Devil's great name Rebellion Rearst. For had not that black Breed of Cerberus, Scout, Dove, Diurnal, and Britannicus, Wise Wither, Booker, and the damned swarms Of Rake-hells, Animated England's harms, All our Contentions had been reconciled Long since, and blessed Peace had gently smiled. Were't not for theirs and thine ill working Brain, The King had justly had His own again: Th'affrighting front of bloody War had not Disturbed no honest English man or Scot Thousands of Souls are from their Bodies parted, (By Lies and Cursed Libelers perverted) Which may be feared did to perdition fall Before their Bodies could have Burial. You Mongrel Whelps of Hell's Infernal Litter, What is the cause that makes your hate so bitter, Is it because you think yourselves more Righteous, Or (in the Devil's naine) wherefore thus despite ye us? Is it because the King's a Protestant That 'gainst him you are joined in Covenant? Is it because he means to be so still And never means to change, you wish him ill? Is it because he's Merciful and Just You those Indignities upon him thrust, Is it because he ne'er intended wrong That you do hold his Life and Reign too long? Are these the Causes wherefore you dislike him Are these th' occasions why your Malice strike him? Go hang yourselves base Villains, he shall Live And flourish, and his God will Guerdon give To you with Judas, and Achitophel Where unrepenting Cursed Rebels dwell. What Arms into the Field can Traitors bring But Armed Impiety against the King; Is not the Person of the King so high As God Almighty's sacred Deputy? Then what are those blasphemous Rabshakaes' anathemas, and Maranathama'es? Psal. 14. v. 4, 5, 6, 7. God looks and sees how they do plot and plod They understand not, nor seek after God, Abominable out o'th' way they're gone there's none doth good amongst them, no not one, Their Throats are open Sepulchers, their Tongues Have lied deceitfully with slandering Wrongs, And underneath their Lips Asps poison is, Their Mouths are full of Cursing bitterness, Their Feet are very swift men's blood to shed Hapless destruction in the ways they tread, The way of Peace they have not known, and there Before their eyes of God there is no fear. Thus is the foureteenth Psalm in David's stile Applied to such as dare the King Revile. And what art thou then, but a false pretender That seeks to Ruinated the Faith's Defender: To blow War's Trumpet, without warrant for it, Is foul Rebellion, all good men abhor it. And what hath Roguish Rhyming, Tricks and jeers But set us all together by the Ears, To Murder, Pilfer, Plunder, and oppress, To make Wives Widows, Children fatherless, The Father 'gainst the Son, Son 'gainst the Father, And Brother against Brother force together, Whilst Christian Faith, you Hypocrites or'ewhelme. And Public Faith hath Cheated all the Realm. This (Master George) is your great Trades * A great ship that used to go to the East Indies, called the Trade's Increase. Enerease To Write, Rail, and disturb your Country's Peace, In Rhyme to render our Dread Sovereign odious, For your great profit hath▪ been much commodious, Hadst thou not Writ, and Railed as thou hast done thou'dst been no Captain, thou'dst been hanged as soon; The only way to flourish, and go brave, Is to turn Rebel, Hypocrite and Knave, If I myself, would but a Villain be I should be Mounted and preferred like thee. Yet 'tis not fear of Heavens Eternal wrath Or Hell's dam'd Tortures, me restrained hath, But filial fear of God, in me bears sway, That I in love his Ordinance obey, And those that do not (I do fear) their fate Will be the portion of the Reprobate. But whither Whither, doth my fancy slay? I ought not write in serious phrase to thee, Thou precious most pernicious Prelate hater To durham's Reverend Bishop thou wast Cater, Or Steward, where to make thy ' Counts seem clear, Thou maddest two Months of July in one year, And in the total Reckoning it was found Thou Cheatest the Bishop of five hundred pound. Dr Howser. But thou didst hold it for no sin at all, To Rob the Person that's Episcopal. This is no Crime in thee or thy Compeers, Tub-Preaching Tinkers, Pedlars, Pulpitteeres, Whose best Religion, is most irreligious, Who think Church Spoilers are not sacrilegious, Who hold the Clergy as superfluous People, And make the Chancel base than the Steeple. These are as arrant Rogues as ever twanged And I do wish them in the Bell-ropes hanged. But leaving unto God, the wronged Clergy Now, with a fresh Charge, Whither I must charge ye, And in a true way, I will make Relation, That thy best Writings are Equivocation. And that thy mind and Muse, were never friends▪ In any goodness, but for private ends. But leaving that a while, I will discourse And once i'll put the Cart before the Horse; His Picture graven before some of his Books, the Commendatory Verses to the Picture, were written by himself. Thy Picture to thy Books was Printed, put With curious Workmanship engraved and cut: And Verses under it, were wisely penned Which fools supposed were written by some friend, Which God knows, thou, I, and a Thousand know, Those lines (thy self praise) from thyself did flow▪ Thou dotedst so upon thine own Effigies, It looked so smug, Religious, Irreligious, So Amiable Lovely, Sweet and Fine, A Physnomies Poetic and Divine: Till (like Narcissus) gazing in that Brook, Pride drowned thee, in thyself admiring Book. Yet for your Valour, you deserved much fame You Conquered Farnham Castle, and did tame And vanquished all the Cavaliers so Bravely, (Look in a Glass, and you shall see the Knave Lie) A Dog, two Cats, and an old Woman were Your opposites, when as you entered there, For which great service, had your Master's might, And power withal; you had been dubbed a Knight. But 'tis no matter, they might do as well, They may Create you half a Colonel. In Farnham Castle, thou wast great Commander, And Thoughtst thyself more great than Alexander, Yet in thy Carriage, Valour, Fashion, Form, Thou wast a Strong, Infirm, Stout, Feeble Worm. For when thy Master Rebels called thee out, With all thy fellows of that damned Rout, Thy Cowardice, thou finely didst disguise, Thy sight was dim, the blame was in thine Eyes, For want of sight, thou durst not see to Fight, But like a Rebel Devil couldst see to Write. 'Tis well thou wast not Valiant, as thy Pen Emblazons thee, th'hadst then been Man of Men, Great Agamemnon to thee were a Toy, And Brave Achilles but a prating Boy. Ulysses' a poor Silly Stoic As●e, And Hector for a Fool in Arms should pass. Oh hadst thou had the profit of thine Eyes, thou'dst beaten purblind all the Worthies 9 Thus blind with Ignorance, and Impudence, And Wall-ey'de in thy seared Conscience, Thy Goose-quill, hath Reviled the King and Law, When as thy Sword thou never darest to draw, For which from both sides thou deserv'st a Fee, A Triple Twist at the Triangle Tree. And now I'll leave to fish in troubled Waters, Let's talk a little of some other Matters; 'Tis known that once within these thirty years, Thou wast in Jail for scandalling some Peers, And 'tis not lawful for a Satyr's Pen, To wrong the Honours of particular Men, Which you did, not for any hate you bore To Vice or Villainy, but that therefore You would be famous, and to Prizen Committed, Whereby you seemed most wonderfully Witted. There, in the Marshalseas, whole flights of Gulls, Of Schismatics, of Cuckolds, Knaves and Trulls, In Droves and Herds, in Pilgrimage they came▪ (As Erst Fools did t'our Lady of Walsingham) You were their Idol Saint, and at your Shrine They offered Hecatombs of Coin and Wine, Sweet meats and junkets, (more than you could dream) Came flowing to you daily like a stream. Thus to your Mill came tag, rag, great and small, You Ground, and (with the Cogs) took toll of all. At last to give some Ease unto your, Mill You were Released from Priz'n against your will. Then was your Pockets Treasure full toth' top, Which (by degrees) might t'a Consumption drop, Then after that (by chance) met you and I Where we us'de Complemental courtesy, And talked of Poetry, and then I said. You (by the Muse's favour) was well paid, Whilst I (for my part) what soe'er I writ Though men approved and applauded it, Yet fortune unto me, was still unkind Bounty was fast asleep, or hard to find, Verbosity and Vapour was my Gains And Poverty the Portion of my Pains, Though you found many an Ignorant Maecenas, Which made you fat, still remained a Lean Ass, Words like to those, or much to this effect I spoke, and you this Answer did direct. John, you must boldly do, as I have done Against great Persons let your Verses run, Snarle at the State, and let your Satyre's pen Writ against Government, and Noblemen. You must run wilfully into offence, What though they call it saucy Impudence, And so Commit you for't, as they did me Then shall you Thrive, and be as you would be; Your Books would sell, yourself get Coin and Fame, And then (like mine) Renowned shall be your Name. I do not say our talk was punctual such, But what we spoke imported full as much. By which may be perceived thou Wrot'st soodly Not out of Hatred unto Acts ungodly, By insinuation to intrude Into th'affections of the Multitude. Thus from poor witless Lumps of Ignorance. Thou gatt'st Applause, Coin, , and Countenance. As to their Cost, the most of them can prove Thou Cheatest 'em of their Money and their love, And now your Campo-Musae hath found Grace To grace you in a graceless Captain's Place. Now dreadful Wars, and Politic designs Are the Effects of thy Prophetic Lines: Arms, mighty Arms, and strange Redoubted deed● Are th' Issues now that from thy Muse proceeds, thoust turned thy Anagrams to Ambuscadoes Thy Diagrams to terrible Bravadoes, Thy Chronograms to horrible Stoccadoes, Thy Epigrams to Imbrocadoes, Thy Distiches to Redoubts and Barricadoes, Thy Dactills and thy Spondees to Scalladoes, Thy measured verse to Marches and Soldadoes, Thy Cantos, and Acrostics to Granades, Thy Canzoes' to Brigades, and Canvasadoes, Thy Dialogues to Bruising Bastinadoes, Thy Prologues to most Barbarous Stab-adoes, Thy Catalogues to Vagrant Renegadoes, Thy Epilogues to Warlike Pallizadoes, And Warwick plays th'usurping Adelantade, For England's ruin rules the King's Armado, But 'tis my hope your ends will prove Mockado, Not worth a rag of rotten welsh Freezado, And thou esteemed less than a Lantzprezado. For if thou durst lay by thy cursed Spleen, And speak but Loyally of King and Queen, Cease to belly the Lords, and but deny Thou never slandred'st them with Papistry; Cease to Abuse the Bishops, and the Tribe Of sacred Levi, cease thou cursed Scribe, T'applaud foul Treason, and approve all those, That to God's Church the King, and Peace are foes: Seek but thy countries' Peace in word and deed, Thy Masters then will hang thee for thy Meede, Be but an Honest man two days together, No more a Captain then, but Poor George Wither. Should I but answer every Lie and Line, In that Ba●e Balderdash poor Thing of thine, I might b'accounted so, so, Thus and Thus, An Ass impertinent, Voluminus, A Murderer of Paper, a time Waster, A Folio Fool, a Zany Poetaster, Thy Apish Coxcomb (in thy imitation, Like thee) the Squirt-Rime of our Troubled Nation, One of the Sages of Old Gothams' Clerks That makes reply to every dog that Barks. H're I'll so be thy means for Maintenance, Let thy Applauders die in Ignorance, For 'tis most probable thy jeers and Lying, Thou wrot'st in hope of Gain by my Replying. And if men truly would thy Book examine, There may they find both Sense and Reason's famine, All broken Numbers, fractions, faction, fictions, Mere Mutabilities, self Contradictions, In Dock, out Nettle, here, there, every where, And in conclusion, no where, here nor there, The Phrase where with thy Verse are Beawtifide, Is only where the King is Vileifide, And that for which thou most art Gratified, Hath made a Thousand fools mis-edifide; With impudence thou art so fortified, And with Hypocrisy so Quallifide, And (to the World) thyself hast justifide, That from the World thou art clean Mortified, All which thy Boasting Rhymes have certifide, For under thine own hand 'tis Testifide, And by a crew of Rebels Notifide, (Such as with Ignorance are Stupefied) That those bad times so fowl and Putrifide, By thy rare Writings are much purified: And as we find by war so mundifide, Unparalleled and unexemplifide, (Or at the least so neatly rectifide) That thou deservest to be stellifide, Or Idolised and almost Deified, In the mean time thy fame is Magnifide, Thy person wondered at, and dignifide, And (if they could) thou shouldst be satisfied, (Although themselves were double Damnifide) Thy Female fair, adorned and turpifide, Should, for thy services be Ladifide: All this by Fools and Rebels Ratified, Is by all wise men scorned and Nullifide. Our Miseries thou hast not mollifide, Thou our ealamities hast amplifide, And this my Satyr's Lash hath verifide. This thou mayst see, and this thou must allow, I can Rand words, and Rhyme as well as thou: Speak and write Nonsense, even by thy example, (Though not like thine Admired abroad so ample) Like to the inundation of a flame, Or like a Mad Lord, never out of frame, Or like the Entrails of a purple Snail, Or like the wagging of the Dog-starres Tail, Or like the Frost and Snow that falls in June, Or like sweet Music, that was ne'er in Tune: Or like a Ship that wants sides, Stem and Keel, Or like the Marrowbones of Fortune's Wheel, Even such is Wither, like all these or nothing, Yet like himself, in every good man's Loathing. And is not this rare Nonsense, prithee tell, Much like thy writing, if men mark it well: For Nonsense is Rebellion, and thy writing, Is nothing but Rebellious Wars inciting. Base Scandal, Lies, and Disobedience, Is most Ridiculous, and poor Nonsense, there's nothing is true sense, but what is true, And Hanging is good sense for such as you. Apollo made not thee his only Hoire In Poetry, I got some part for my share, And though, with Art thou partly art endo'wd, Yet God and Nature, me some safety allowed: Which I (as my poor Talent will extend) To Vindicate my wronged King I'll spend. Nor am I bound (what e'er thou may'st suggest) To think mongst England's Poets thou art best, Thy Verses many ways applauded are Yet many that Boast less may reach as fare. Doth all invention in thy Brain Consist, Art thou the Bounds, the Limits and the List, The Longitude of Wit and Honesty, The Latitude of true Integrity; Art thou th' Hyperbole wonder, whose Rare Parts Is Non Plus Vltra, of all 〈◊〉 and Arte●, Art thou all this, the Devil thou art. Bragge on, Myself once got a Sip of H●llicon, Which with Enthusiasms did infuse Into my Brains some Rap'ts of every Muse, And therefore, I am sure, thou hast not all, I have my Portion too (although but small.) Which if'ft 'twere less by half, I dare as●ay, To Cope with thee, in any Loyal way. But to write Verse, that may Rebellion breed There in thou art too hard for me indeed. In the mean space, Thou Pigmy Imp of War, Rodomontado, Champion for the Par- * These words are purposely cloven or split, for the understanding of the Learned, Illiterate, Grave, Ridiculous Reader. Lament, we grieve for grieved England's woe, Whilst every true Man's driven from his Po-* Sessions may try those Knaves that look so big; And then 'tis ten to one, but Honest Grig-* Or I, in Lofty Verse thy praise shall Sing, And Thou high Mounted to thy Merits, Swing. FINIS.