THE REFORMADOS RIGHTED. BEING AN ANSWER TO A paltry peece of Poetry, STILED, GENERALL MASSEY'S Bartholomew-Fayrings, FOR Colonell POYNTZ, &c.
Printed in the Yeare 1647.
The Reformado's righted.
ANd yet me thinkes he doth attempt the street
As boldl'as he whose provd Heroick Feet
Trampled on ruin'd Troy. Like one oth' race,
Whose Feet run perfect in their Cinquepace.
But O yee Nine forgive me that I thus
Mistooke the fellow, and his Genius,
Alas!
See the beginning of the Pamphles.
'Twas then when as I but reade oreThe foure first words, those made me thirst for more.
But O my wish is now that I had first
Drunke at thy Bottle to have quencht that thirst,
Before the loathsome Inck had been a tist,
And on thy guilty sheet so fouly spilt
Thy Vomit Homer, were a Cordiall
To this blacke potion: how it tasts oth' Gall?
How raw this undigested Matter lies
Upon my stom [...]cke? How I feele it rise?
And must disgorge agen, Well, if I doe
With it Ile bring up fleame and choller too.
But is this all St. Bartholmew affoords,
A fardle of unprofitable words?
A very Pedlers packe indeede it is,
A Miscellaneous heape of sentences:
An Independent R [...]psodie of Rimes
Flesh't with an imprimatur from the Times.
'Twill passe this Faire time for a Labell to
Some Puppet play some new found Maske or show,
A Fairing call y' it? Sure by all the prattle
'Tis such a bauble as a Smithfield Rattle;
For such indeed I bought it, and it shall
Serve for my lighter thoughts to play withall.
But what turn'd Poet Lilburne? Yes, tis he;
T' lookes like his prose slic'd into Poetry.
'Twas of his spinning sure, only the scene
Cut into needlefulls; has chang'd his vaine,
Or hir'd some withered Genius, or him
That pen'd the Western Iliads, to trim
His rugged Phrase, his Lines with Rimes to tip
His syllables with Synalepha's clip,
And scarce enough to pare them I protest,
Some Lines two foot at least outstrip the rest:
Others fall short as far oth' rule;
See page the 3. at viz. Oh that we had the Independent Army by: and a gain at viz. A scarlet Reformado who scarce yet did know: again pag. the 4. almost all ore.
as thoughSet Formes in Poesie were sinfull too:
Doubtlesse he thought that verse differd from prose,
Only in their unevennesse ith' close,
And so turn'd Poet with as little paine
As ever Ovid with his naturall straine.
But why my Legislative Liburne now
So light and triviall growne? So frothy you,
You that ere while prescrib'd what you thought meet
To governe States by, thus appeare ith' street
Amid'st a knot of Ballad Nosers. You,
That in a croud of Saints could nose it so:
Oh, 'tis a Hymne of praise newly compos'd
By that sweet singer, and as sweetly nos'd
By him, who now in solace overflowes
To see the banishment of his two foes
Massey and Pointz: A hymne that hath been sung
The faithfull Congregations all among,
A song in consort; base and treble, see,
By th' differing Notes in his Typography.
His Muse is Dialogicall; behold
The fashion of his verse, and then unfold.
From his hot braine there rose an angry push,
Which prickt, out did this filthy Matter gush.
'Tis true we'r idle;
'T was then when as the name of Massies force called all the idle Reformadoes to Horse, &c.
but alas! you knowYou may best call us that have made us so.
Ungratefull London! Maist thou never more
Finde a friend faithfull; though thou shouldst implore
His Aide with teares, and bended knees: May never
Successive woes from thy accurst walls sever.
Tell me ye poore unworthy spirits there;
Is not our blood, our lives to us as deare
As is your owne? Could you betray us then,
To save your selves? O yee most false of men:
Us who prepar'd the Lawrell for the Brow
Of them who proudly doe usurpe it now.
Us who have done, we'r not asham'd to say,
As faithfull service to the State as they;
Us whom ye cal'd into the field to save you
From a proud Army purpos'd to enslave you,
And you have found it so; you have let in
A Trojan Horse that shall reward your sin
Of treachery; thus you have wound a wreath
For others Brows, to binde your owne hands with.
Was't not enough that first you gave away
Our field employments from us, made us stay
So long for what we earn'd so long before,
Till we had spent it double on the score?
But you must now engage us to bereave
Our hopes of all subsistance, and to leave
Our Carcases to th' mercy of a croud,
Under whose cover, so your selves may shroud,
Let men of honour perish, and their Name
Rot in your service, so they beare your shame.
Yet tis not such a poore Pedanticke Muse
As this, can our brave Massies Fame abuse:
Tis not a drop from such a peevish Pen
Can blot that Name; but we can clear't agen
With Characters indelible, as those
That lasting Vellame weares: Our Standish flowes
With constant fresh supplies that shall be spent
T'repayr th' inscription of his Monument,
When Age hath slur'd it; may he flourish still,
In spite of such a Rimers teethy Quill.
Write on, write on, dull Foole, thy gawlfull Inke
Shall sooner then the reputation sink
Of thy too brave an enemy, to be
Wrong'd by the Pen of such a Chouse as thee.
But stout Poyntz too must have a Lash forsooth;
Read pag the 1. His brother P [...]yntz was strait informd. a youth with goggle eyes and large wry mouth.
The Fellow's angry at his eyes and mouth.
For shame dull Satyrist, you now Lash out
Beyond the compasse of your Whip, to flowt
At Natures Errour: you'd be scourg'd for this
With sharper Whipcord then a Poets is.
And yet I wonder the white-liver'd Poet
Durst looke him in the face so long, to know it,
And take such notice on't, and not fall dead
Under his lookes they carry so much dread.
Bu [...] see, the foole takes heart, hee's resolute,
Read pa [...]the a [...] the Dialogue betweene Poyntz and the Poet, observed by the variation in the print.
And face to face in words, they now fall too't.
But yet his colour goes and comes, me hinke,
As if his trembling soule appear'd in's I [...]ke:
B [...]hold sometimes how deepe it lookes, anon
If Poyntz but speake, the colour's chang'd and gone.
The Printer doubtlesse was ingenuous,
So aptly to the life to paint him thus.
But now his courage comes:
Looke page the 3. at viz. Out yee damned Garlike eating Rogues, d'you thinke you don't already vent sufficient stinks. But you must call for those will die your skurffes and breeches of
the same.
his colour rises,Atth' Name o'h 'Army, how he tyrannises
O're the dejected Reformado's, with words
As lowd as is the Thunder, Jove affoords?
Yet see the Poets Thunder Bolt's soone shot,
A line or two limits his rage: but what?
What foule aspersion, Sirrah, durst you throw
On our yet unstayn'd Skarffes? You Varlet, know,
Though our Great Sun, within blacke night be set,
Our bright Aurora turnd to Evening; yet
Our colours still retaine their hue, and shall
Ev'n in dead Autumne, when yours perish all.
Although the Beames that made us Tawny, now
Be shut up from us, weel our selves allow
Fr [...]sh Skarses to celebrate his memory,
Who though he died, could not our hue undy.
Brave Essex is that Sun, which yet in vaine
You thinke to sully with your inky staine:
We have a pen lies dipt in Leman Lake,
To take out all the staines your Inke can make
On these pure Skarfes of ours: yes such a pen
Whose sharpnesse shall make thee looke sowre agen.
O Sir! you'r merry, wondrous merry now,
And so conceited you can quibble too,
And in such witty wise, that I protest
Archy to thee was but a Foole in Iest:
The bare word Massie fits him with a clinch
So soveraigne that Name is at a pinch,
For all you scorne him so: but we know why;
[...] an Independent Army by
To beare you our, you durst be hang'd as well
As write in his disgrace one syllable.
But O the times and manners! That a foole,
A scurrilous Asse that yet might goe to Schoole
And learne to scan a Verse; should undertake
To dip his Pen in Castaly, and make
Such sottish Rimes would stop the Muses eares,
He would be thought a Satyrist by's jeares;
But such a one as was Filistus, when
He undertooke to flout at Virgills pen,
A Satyre rather by his beastly Feet,
His ruffe unpolish't lines, a thing not meet
To be ecclip't a Poeme; if you will
Call it the Castings of a Poets quill.
But that so vilde a thing as this should passe
The shreets unwhipt; that such a prating Asse
Should be thus licens'd to abuse and wrong
So many men of Honour, in a throng
Of Ballad Auditors, attempt the Presse,
And boldly vapour in the Printers dresse
Through the abused streets; I was asham'd,
Nor could I see such rudenesse passe untam'd,
Such impudence scape uncorrected. No,
Since y' have made kicking we would have you know
We can finde Feet at hand as well as you,
And bring a Muse full as long winded too.
May't neare be said that Massey wants a Pen
Or Points, or our deceased Essex, (when
Such dull deriders shall reproach their Name)
To reillustrate their deserved F [...]me
Even then, when those for Faine that thirsty grow,
Shall want a drop of Inke to quench it; though
They now have pul'd the Laurell from the Brow
That was its proper Soile, and cropt the Bow
From off its naturall Stocke, and of it made
A Garland for themselves: But it must fade,
And Crumwell must returne againe to brew
I'th Fenny Island, and forsake his Crew,
And Fairefax too, retire to's Frigid Zone,
And our King Charles be settled in his Throne.
Now thankes my pedling Poet for your Fairing,
I have made use on't where tis worth the wearing.
For since you have accus'd us of ill sent,
Read page the 3. at the top.
Your sheet our future stinking shall prevent;
Or if we thought 'twould vex your patience more,
With it wee'd light our smoake you so abhorre:
Ibidem.
At least if Derricke don't prevent our Taper,
And burn't in Smithfield for a Libellous Paper,
O how 'twould vexe our Idle Pamphleteer,
To see his Fairing executed there:
Yet such a punishment too Noble is
For senslesse Rimers; let thy doome be this;
May never Reader henceforth looke for Thee,
But on a Whipping Post or Pillory.
FINIS.