AN ANSWER TO A FOOLISH PAMPHLET ENTITLED A swarm of Sectaries & Schismatics. Put forth by John Taylor the Water-Poet. Wherein is set down 1. An Epistle to John Taylor. 2. john Tailors Arms, blazed by Fennor. 3. George Hattons lines sent to john Taylor. 4. The view of his long silence. 5. The view of his writing this Book. 6. A view of the Title. 7. A view of john Taylor in the TUB. 8. A view of his Puritans. 9 A view of his Hypocrisy. 10. An Exhortation to john Taylor to repent. Printed in the Year, 1641. An Epistle to john Taylor the Water Poet. M● Taylor, AFter a Supper of slanders, give me leave to return a Banquet of defence; I am sorry that my pen is plucked back from other occasions, to answer an opposite so ignoble: but seeing Religion shot at by such a poisoned Pistol; I thought it meet to serve out the bullet of thy infamy before it grew rank, or festered too fare in the world's apprehension. But all that I shall say to thee in this Epistle more, is only to call thee back, to thy old A. B. C. long since set thee by an old acquaintance of thine to an Anagramme, that thyself writ of his name. My Anagramme if thou but rightly fear, Then thou wilt find, 'tis I will fear no man, How can I then fear thee that art a Tailor, A shred of fustian, and a ragged Railer; A dish that is not worth the seeding on, When thou art best in Lent thou'rt but poor john. The Arms of John Taylor the Water-poet, blazed according to the old Copy. And first because all sculls thou dost excel, A silver care will for thy Crest do well, A pair of arms bound in a sable scarf, In a sad field as large as Wapping-wharfe: Out of the wa●er shall appear one dead, A halter, and a cross bar o'er his head, And on his shield this Motto shall be found, Taylor the sculler was both hanged and drowned: In all this blazing thee no hurt I mean, But hang thee till the tide hath washed thee clean. To John Taylor the Water-poet. When a fresh waterman doth turn salt Poet; His Muse must prattle, all the world must know it, Of whore and thief, he writes two merry books, He loves them both, I know it by his looks. G. H. John Tailors lying still. Not I alone (but many more) have wondered that john Taylor hath of late been crowded from the Press by these young Poets; surely he hath mourned to see these times, and fearing Reformation, thought it the best policy to hold his peace; lest his pen betray his dissembling heart, & so the times chance to correct his knavery, and he feel the smart of his lascivious life; for such wanton tricks as he used when he made the Poet almost fear that he— came too near his wife, when he said to him. But yet I wonder since thou hatest my life, Thou shouldst profess such kindness to my wife, If thy hot love without deceit be fervent, My Kitchen maid shall take thee for her servant; For all the love that from my wife proceeds, Is scorning of thy person and thy deeds. Such tricks as these may well prevail to keep an idle lascivious, drunken Poets lines from the Press, such happy times as these. But stay! john Taylor hath taken courage: he hath writ a book, and oh how Papists laugh at it, and commend it, and they are very glad to see him begin to peep out; well let him take heed, lest he peep through a wooden casement in Cheapside, or else fair worse in a cart, with a breakfast with young Gregory. The cause why he writ. john Taylor was, a while since, invited to dine with his old friend the Bishop of Canterbury in the Tower, and oh how he made his little gr●ce laugh, with telling of him strange stories; john c●n cut out Brownists, and Puritans into shreds at his pleasure, though he have his own Religion to choose, indeed he hath said to some, that they had as good to deal with the Devil, as with him, which we see verified in him, by his base scandalous lines, which were long since reproved thus. How Rascall-like thou dealest at the first, Thou show'st from what antiquity the art nursed: But I will spare thee thou intemperate Ass, Until in Bridewell thou shalt currant pass. What hath the Bishop of Canterbury rubbed up the courage, to put thy railing lines in print, against thou knowst not whom nor what? No marvel though his Arch-Grace told John Taylor, that he wondered he would not visit his wine ofter; is this book his recompense for thy friendly entertainment? An Answer to his title. The title pretends to discover Sects, and Schisms, but the book runs (for the most part) of another matter, sure he thought he had been at his old work, the world runs on wheels; he writes of kissing, and whoring, and such ribble and rabble of his own brain: ah john, old Rats love cheese. Dost thou think thou losest thy living, when thou hast not thy fare of threescore whores in a day: doth this enable Poets to do the Kingdom good service? What, wilt thou again lament the loss of those days, wherein thou hast attended the whole fry of famous whores, to air themselves by waters? Of the picture in the title of his Book. I did first conceive that fellow in the Tub to be john Taylor the Poet, having stayed so long with the Bishop of Canterbury, until at last he saw one vessel of Sack drawn dry, and then broke out the head of the Tub to tumble in, and falling asleep was almost stifled in the Lees; crying out to Sam t●e Vintner's boy in the Tower, to help him; crying Sam: How, come and help me out, and all the people flocking about him, see how he stands like a drowned mouse. But for all this, when the Bishop comes to his graceship again, he'll give John a good pension, but I hope he shall ne'er see it. Long since did that satire protest thus against him. I to my Country do commend my love and skill, To root out all such * john Tailor and his Adherents, instruments of ill. This, saith he, was printed luckily, and you see that it may be read unhappily. The Knaves Puritan. The Captain and first frontier of the swarm he brings in to be the Knaves Puritan▪ or if you will John Tailors opposite, that abhors sin, and detests all such corrupt company. Who striving God to fear, and serve the best he can, The Poet is a knave t'abuse this Puritan. The Knave Puritan. What is the Poet mad to lay the rod in piss, that must lash his own fat knavish buttocks; to describe the knave Puritan (as he calls him) to be so like his own picture? Surely did not the Printer mistake, and put in Puritan instead of Poet? Well a Croyden Scholar once began to tumble Hell for Tailor's shreds that are thrown out of sight: though something obscurely, when he said he read his verses to me, and which more is, did move my Muse to write Laudem Auditories. If for his Land Discoveries, she should praise him, Whether would then this liquid knowledge raise him? Read his two Treatises of thief and whore, You'll think it time for him to leave his Oar; Yet thus much of his worth I cannot smother, 'Tis well for us, when thiefs peach one another. To he that will. In the first place John Taylor would have the Readers to understand that his Muse is no further Musical, than it runs division; and so it is in very deed; for one while he derides those that deride true Religion as Atheists, and by and by, he (like a substantial Papist) derides the Contemners of Popish rights as Heretics, and while he pretends reverence to truth, and presently again he applauds foul Errors; this indeed is truly called by himself division, whereby he unmaskes his own Hypocrisy. Thou talkest much of preaching, but when dost thou either hear the word of God preached to thee, or when dost thou pray? One writ the word long since; That thou that of man's life art no esteemer, What mercy canst thou hope from thy Redeemer? Say these had wronged thee, thou good names betrayer, Thou callest for vengeance in thy Saviour's prayer; I will not say so, but it doth appear, Thou scarce dost say thy prayers once a year. How lightly doth he esteem of preaching: when as he compares it to the hang in a Lady's bedchamber, and I know not what, surely this he rubbed up out of his memory, since he played the B●wd, expressing himself, how the wand'ring sight brought home, into the very bedchamber of the heart, amorous actions, effeminate glances, pictures of prostitution, and Venereal vanities, he brings a remembrance (which was long since commended) before his eyes and presents it to others, to t●ke warning by Achitophel. But dost thou think the matter is no more, But hang themselves? Thy Counsel they abhor. But take thou heed of this enchanted spell, John Taylor ended like Achitophel. What foolish Ass, like thee, would take in hand, To write of that thou canst not understand? But dear T●rlia in her ●iming fit Sung, thou wilt die a fool for want of wit. But I am sorry that thy credit's tainted, To make thee and thy Chandler unacquainted, Will he now score no more for eggs and cheese, Because he saw thy Hope upon her knees? For reputation thou canst have no more Than in a bakers debt, or Alewives score; And if thou be denied both bread and drink, Thy writing, and thy lazy sides will shrink. I see thou art so bare and desperate, Thou wouldst turn Hangman to advance thy state, And hang up honest men, but they'll o'ermatch you, And stand to see an hempen halter catch you. Tailor's shreds. When this Tailor comes to spread his shreds abro●d by piecemeal, he falls into a furious railing against this man, and that man, and I know not who, and these he calls holy brethren, & the women holy sisters, the lines are full of roguish Language, such as Newgate teacheth: a friend of his was persuaded long since, that he was tutored in the stews, because he is so perfect in their speech, full of base roguish wish, Curses, and Revile, tempestuous Rail, and defiling men's good names, and though he protested not long since that he would scorn to molest the name of the dead, expressing himself that he conceived it to be a most inhuman thing, but let him look upon his old Anagramme. O hate, rail on, or this rail on, O hate: For spite of railing I must it dedicate An Answer to thy theme although not so large, Will sink thy scullers boat, though't were a Barge, To halter up thy Muse my Muse gins, To truss the jade for breaking people's shins. Remember when thou lettest the wine run tumbling down, Thy rotten wine-pipe like a drunken clown, But yet thy Lion drunk could not defend thee, Although thy Ape drunk, makes some men commend thee, And thy tobacco is such stinking stuff, That thou knowst who cried out enough, enough. Farewell, V R. Heavenly K. R. FINIS.