Fennors defence: or, I am your first man VVherein the VVater-man, Iohn Taylor, is dasht, sowst, and finally fallen into the Thames: With his slanderous taxations, base imputations, scandalous accusations and foule abhominations, against his maiesties ryming poet: who hath answered him without vexatione, or [...] bling recantations. The reason of my not meeting at the Hope with Taylor, is truly demonstrated in the induction to the [...] udger. Thy hastie gallop my milde muse shall checke, that if thou sit not sure, will breake thy necke.

Epitaph.

HEre lyes a Carkasse in this Graue, Who while he liu'd, would rayle and raue; Borrow his wit from others worth, And in his owne name set it forth: He row'de from Tyber to the Thames, And there his tongue himselfe proclaimes The luster of all Watermen, To row with Scull, or write with Pen. O, had he still kept on the Water, And neuer come vpon Theater, He might haue liu'de full merrily, And not haue di'de so lowsily. O, 'twas that foolish scuruie Play At Hope that tooke his sence away: Yet he to blot out all his shame, Imputes the fault on Fennors name;

And rayl'de at him like a mad bodie; Liu'de a bare Foole, di'de a base Noddie. But if you'le know what was his name, I willingly will shew the same: No Land-Poet, nor Sea-Saylor, But a poore Sculler, call'd Iohn Taylor: And had not Hate this Wonder slaine, He would haue liu'de a Knaue in graine. Thus Iack thou seest what friendship I would do, Garnish thy Graue out with a verse or two: But yet thou art aliue, and I surmise Thou wilt not die till Crowes pecke out thy eyes. Ide wish thee sayle vnto some foraine Places, Where they haue neuer heard of thy Disgraces: The Baramoodes Toung thou dost professe; The name of Poet there thou may'st possesse: There spread thy Pamphlets, make thē vnderstand Thou art the chiefest Poet in that Land. Thou sayst my Pate a mint of Lyes can forge; Indeed t'has wit ynough thy lyes to scourge: For I was neither ridde South, North, nor East, But into Warwikeshire, direct Northwest: Nor did I thither ride, to shunne thy Play, But 'twas my Fathers will call'd me away; And for th'obedience that he in me found, He gaue me his blessing, with a hundred pound. Then Sculler know, that was no Tinkers gift, Nor had I need for thy poore Crowne to shift:

But he that told thee I was gone int' Kent, Spoke halfe as true as thou dost, lies inuent. But see how Enuie in thy heart doth trot, Thou grieu'st that I a poore mans Pardon got; Is thy eye euill then, 'cause mine is good? Or wouldst thou stop my Fountaine with thy mud? No; spight of thee, thou Canniball to man, I will not cease to doe what good I can: Nor doe I looke for Siluer for my meede, When poore men want, if I can helpe their neede: For though thou raylst on me at the Beare garden, Rather then see thee hangd, Ide beg thy Pardon; Although it cost me more the suing forth In readie money then thy Boat is worth: So much I tender Man, though bred by Nature, As being Image of his high Creator: But thou that of mans Life art no esteemer, What mercie canst thou hope frō thy Redeemer. Say I had wrōgd thee, thou good-names betrayer, Thou call'st for Vengeance in thy Sauiors prayer: I will not say so, but it doth appeare, Thou scarce dost say thy prayers once a yeare: Thou must forgiue, if thou wouldst be forgiuen; For if thou fear'st not Hell, nere hope for Heauen. Thou dost accuse the King as well for Graunts As men for Sutes: But leaue these bitter taunts, And learne in time, blacke tayle of insolence, To arme thy heart with Christian patience.

Thus haue I answered all thy false Alarmes: Now it remaines for me to blaze thy Armes; For thou hast falsely set vp mine in blue; Wherefore I meane to haue a bowt with you. Thy Heraldrie shall not out-strip my braine, But Ile deuise as good for thee againe: And first; because all Sculls thou dost excell, A siluer Oare will for thy Crest doe well, A paire of Armes bound in a sable Scarffe, In a sad field, as large as Wapping Wharffe, Out of the water shall appeare one dead, A Halter and a crosse-barre ore his head; And on his Shield this Motto shall be found, Taylor the Sculler was both hangd and drownd. In all this blazing thee, no hurt I meane, But hang thee till the Tide haue washt thee clean: And when the billowes ore thy head are flowing, And AEolus 'gainst Neptunes brow is blowing, And Oares & Sculs aboue thy crosse-barre sailing, There is great hope thou wilt forget thy rayling. Thus haue I answered thee in three dayes space, And yet my Penne ranne but an ampling pace: Thus much I mildly write, in hope 'twil mēd thee; If not, the Thames or Wapping shore wil end thee. And last, to shew what course I would direct thee, Vse honestie, from Tiborne to protect thee.

Thine more then thou desirest,

Will: Fennor, his Maiesties Riming Poet.