The Incomparable Poem, Poem 12 – Poem 17
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 doe now Jack a doggs is dead
To get Tom Coriat decent buried.
Tis fit the man that Travell'd had so much,
And rode a stride the vessell in High Dutch.
Should have a place to lay his head, if he
Were but dead drunk, as he was us'd to be.
Is there no Art ho? nor Commencement nigh?
Mutton I smell, Vacation Pullets ply,
Toward Trumpington, and Shottover, a hill,
Neer 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 Iack supply the Club, and give's a Pot.
Does not that Gentleman upon the Bench
Love Smoak nor Sack? then let him have a Wench.
All palates pleas'd, a Scot will eat no Swine,
Men will eat men, Reckabites drinke no Wine.
Hey 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 farre, 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 geere,
Noses revert, be where your Arses were.
'Uds Fish and Egs! that is no swearing yet,
What shall we do? we'r in a deadly sweat.
We have got In Ano Feavor. Good Kings 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'l smell it.
And let it boyle three pints unto a half,
Then let it coole, and give't a Durham Calf;
Or these Calabrian Swine, or Padan Goats,
But be ye sure (sweet Princess) of your Coats:
O tie 'um up behind, or skewit tuck 'um,
For fear these Lads from off your Buttocks pluck 'um
O arm your self, for they're adventrous fellows,
And commonly stav'd off with Tongs or Bellows.
Or break their heads with some good Cherrystone,
'Twill beat them off the pit, 'tis ten to one.
Though they be cruel Cockers, strike, they're marr'd,
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 shar'd '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 farre out of our wits, now let's be in our senses.
1.
The Sun was sunk into the watry lap
Of her commands the waves, and weary there,
Of his long journey, took a pleasing nap
To ease his each daies travels all the year.
2.
Zanthus is safely said forrage to yeild,
For his bright Coursers with their flaming hoofs,
(No, no, Elisium 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 joyn'd that night,
And reap'd 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 Curtaines blush'd, that is, were very red,
While she was thaw'd, that still that night was frost.
6.
Old Astragon, as Fathers gladly use,
A Caudle brought next morning early,
And joy'd his daughter, but she could not choose
But snob, and made it richer, that is, Pearly.
7.
Not that she wept 'cause she had chang'd her name,
But teares, you know with them, are too too common.
It was to think what time sh'had lost, & blames
Her self; she had no sooner put on Woman.
I am beholding, but not to this D. Donne for that.
Stout Gnodibert grown stiffer by those teares,
For she imbrac'd the Man, that invers'd Tree,
So that for certain he nere hung his eares,
But thrash'd, and took for a Walnut, Birtha she.
Where is the Fustian and the Bombast?
In your own Doublets, sure compleat.
To Daphne on his incomparable (and by the Critick incomprehended) Poem, Gondibert.
CHear up dear friend, a Laureat thou must be,
Nay, in this name entituled to the Tree.
Gather (you Infant-wits) loose Bayes from hence,
And weare 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 minde of those,
(That he would gladly lend thee part of's nose,
Sad of thy least Defect) and spight of us,
For thee would write a new De Tristibus.
Tasso and Petrach, and his Laura too,
Will throw off Modesty, and the Bayes wooe.
Apollo call a Counsell, make an Act,
And let their Verses with the Cords be packt.
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 calfs, & sword fish.
Let the whole shoale of lesser Pamphlets swim,
As the Wit-frye. Secur'd 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 um line.
2.
O hopefull Inigo, towardly old man,
That know'st so much, that Daphne nere knew letter,
Oxford him bred, Paris brought up. Who can?
(And the Globe clapt his Playes;) who can do better?
3.
Rime, feet of Reason, was his studied Art,
Rimes that are grasp'd by you in Divels claw.
Rimes Lycambaean, full of Salt and Tart—
Tar that will burn the fingers, shirt and straw.
4.
To sublime Reason, Nature's inmate, Art,
Did Rimes as Varnish to her house devise,
Rubbish lies under the rar'd plaister-part,
That is rough reason couch'd, 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-stoole 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 clense your tripe:
(A proper taile-clout) wipe for wipe.
Cockle-de-moys for the Poets Hot-cockles.
HOt-cockles are but childrens toyes,
No more, my friends, are Cockle-de moys.
We'le play at both; but who shall lie?
Recant and Poem late wrote high,
Amount unto a Book. Lie faire you,
As you did lately, and Ile 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 whatsoere y'have donne be—.
Smell to my hand Sir, what, so coy?
Close, 'tis best a Cocle-de-moy.
Come Donne, come neerer with your nose;
How nice? 'tis but to pluck a Rose.
Better do thus, then go to th' Crowes.
Has Denham smelt? He's very ill;
Let him be breath'd on Cooper's hill.
Draw neer (you fourth Rhinoceros)
This for your Verses and your Prose.
While it was made, I chanc'd 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 Physick Ile 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. Katharine's, Covent, cum Finsbury Garden, Canon, no Christ-Church, Venery Bangher, Aclap.
Epithites that will serve foure
Appellative, and four proper Nouns, or more.
Drolling, Insipid, Sarcustick, Damned, Heroick,
Lumbery, Bombasted, Fustian, Hauty, Pecking.
Upon the Authors writing his name, as in the Title of the Booke, 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 Muses Rooms.
Dort, knows our name, no more Durt on't;
An't be but for that D'avenant.
2.
And when such people are restor'd,
(A thing belov'd by none that whor'd)
My noches then may not appeare,
The gift of healing will be neer.
Meane while Ile seeke some Panax (salve of Clowns)
Shall heal the wanton Issues, and crackt Crowns.
I will conclude, Farewell Wit Squirty Fegos
And drolling gasmen Wal-Den-De-Donne-Dego.
FINIS.
End of the text · Robert Wild, The Incomparable Poem (1655)