To my Friend both by Water and Land, IOHN TAYLOR.
OFt hast thou trauail'd for me at thy Oare,
But neuer in this kind didst toyle before.
Toturne a Poet in this peeuish time,
It held as rare as I should write in rime,
For one of thy profession, yet thy Art,
S••••passeth mine, this serues to paint that part,
I meane thy Poetry which in •••••• lurks,
And not thy sweating skill in water-works.
I cannot but commend thy Booke, and say
Thou merit'st more then comman Scullers pay:
Then whistle off thy Muse, and giue her scope,
That she may soundly cease vpon the Pope:
For well I see that he and many more,
Are dar'd by her (which scarce was done before.)
Pr••••••d (good Iohn) and when th'ast done this worke,
Feare not to venter trussing of the Turke.
I like thy vaine, I loue thee for those guifts
Of Nature in thee, farre about the shifts
That others seeke, plodding for what thy pen,
Wit Workes in thee learning in other men,
Then Natiue Language we haue done thee wrong
To say th'art not compleat, wanting the tongue
Call'd Latine, for b••cre's are shall •••••• the strife,
That neuer learned Latine word •••••• life.
Then to conclude, I truly must confesse.
Many baue more beene taught, but learned lesse.
Thy assured friend R. B.