The poet's blind mans bough,: or have among you my blind harpers : being a pretty medicine to cure the dimme, double, envious, partiall, and diabolicall eyesight and iudgement of those dogmaticall, schismaticall, aenigmaticall, and nou [sic] gramaticall authors who lycentiously, without eyther name, lycence, wit or charity, have raylingly, falsely, and foolishly written a numerous rable of pesteferous pamphelets in this present (and the precedent yeare, / justly observed and charitably censured, by Martine Parker.

THE POET'S BLIND MANS BOVGH.

COme Niminsis lend me little twigge, Though these delinquents faults are very big, Yet I (though much exasperared) will Mixe mercy with revenge; doe good for ill. My worke may now be tearm'd a demy Satir, My muse hates Railing, as shee Scornes to Flatter, Though Iustice hold her scales with equall poyse, Charity sways the beame; she none destroyse, Some shee will check, and tell them of their deeds, From which rebuke if happily proceeds, Any amendment, she'll be like the nurse, That whipps a child whom she loves ne'r the worse, Should I but give them their deserved due, Whom though I know not that most shamelesse crew Ofn melesse Authers, Authors all of lies, Of slanderous Pasquills rayling falicies, I might my pen dip in that learnean Sinke, Which the infernall furies use for ink, Or with Iambean rimes Ironicall, Make lines should serve for ropes to hang them all But noe such cruelty is in my breast, All my abuses I can take in Iest, And give such Ideots leave to write or speak. Eagles sleight notice take when crowes doe creake You cankers of the state, nay rather you. Vulters; when law and death have said their due,

Doe even gnaw the heart of him that's deade, In this regard may't not be truely so said, That you are Pluto's fidlers; that for pay, Vpon the guts oth dead do play and pray, Presumptious, Petulent, flagitious, dolts dost, Vntrue, unserviceable, unback'd cotes, Durst you beyond the letter of the Law, Presume among your selves to hang and draw You doe asume the place, to say the troth, Of Aprehender, Iudge, and hangman both, When any hath offended 'gainst the state Must such as you the fact exagerate, Have you such cleare eyes that you can esp'y, The litle moate that's in your brothers eye, Making a mountaine of each molehill when You doe not see the beams (O sencelesse men) That in your owne eyes so prevents your Sight And Iudgement that you dare (bee't wrong or right) Save or condemne at pleasure; can your pates, Determine more then Law or Magistrates, Of these your facts he who will censure best, Cannot but say that you intend to wrest, The sword of Iustice from the hand of them To whom ti's due by Iustice to condemne, Or save with mercy; heaven forbid I should, Excuse the faults of those whom Law doth hold, Worthy of punishment, or death, or bonds, My very Soule most aptly Coresponds, With this; and so it ever shall that those, Whom Law doth prove my King or countreys foes, That they have their demerits, curst be him, (For my part) that where Iustice doth condemne, Will wish to save; especially Such men, Whose deeds deserves worse then a vulgar pen.

Upon them can conferre; yet (take my word) More danger comes bith'quill then by the Sword, Let those delinquents of the higher straine, Alone with what is said; and now againe, My muse returnes unto her taske: which is To tell these Libellers what deepe abuse, Of hellish skill, th'ave sounded to compose, Such fond invectives both in rime and prose. Nay come along ner'e shrinke or blush for shame, Their none knowes either of you by your name; Those you were 'sham'd to show, ther's reason for't, Least after ages a deserved sport Might make of you (or your posterity,) Vnnam'd the Authors sh••me with's lines will dy. But my desire and whole intent is that, Your folly being in generall aimed at Each on may take his share of shame and say, In doing this I have not shewed faire play: For what is either more or lesse set forth 'gainst persons in particular; what worth Or same among the vulgar it may win Without the Authors name't hath ever bin Held as a Lybell both in Law and sence, Then he who writes (what e're be his pretence) His name should iustifie what he hath done, This maxim I have alwaies thought upon What ever yet was published by mee, Was knowne by Martin Parker, or M.P. All Poets (as adition to their sames) Have by their Works eternized their names, As Chaucer, Spencer, and that noble earle, Of Surriet ought it the most precious pearle, That dick'd his honour, to Subscribe to what His high engenue ever amed at

Sydney and Shaksspire, Drayton, Withers and Renowned Ionson glory of our Land: Deker, Learn'd Chapman, Haywood althought good, To have their names in publike understood, And that sweet Seraph of our Nation, Quarles (In spight of each planatick cur that snarles) Subscribes to his Celestiall harmony, While Angels chant his Dulcid melodie. And honest Iohn from the water to the land Makes us all know and honour him by's hand; And many more whose names I should have told In their due place, in famous record inrould. Have thought it honest honour to set downe Their names or letters to what is their owne: But you a litter of blind whelps begot By Cerberus, the scumme of natur's pot, Suborn'd by malice and a litle gaines, Invent and publish what your frothy braines, Envaporate some prose and some in rimes, Onely to please the fancie of the times Idle Chemeras, structurs seeming faire, Which vew'd, are prov'd meere castles in the aire. Almanake Makers, were they of your minde, (In stead of Saints to every day a sign'd) Might make a transmutation, and name all By your quotiadian Pamphlets criticall, And dayes caniculer should last all th' yeare, If curish writers they may domineere; The Presse is overprest, and (justly) grones Vnder the burthen of those heavie tones Of Scritch-oule musick, threatning death and hell, One striving all in malice to excell; And he who can best rayle, scoffe, and invent, The greatest lyes, shall give the most content:

Is this the age that doth most truth professe, Are these the dayes of zeale and righteousnesse; Are these the times that hath more light discover'd Revealing secrets that in darknes er'd Why then, O why are lyes and falshhoods spread, Shall men by lying earne their daily bread: Shall truth thus suffer paper persecution, Shall things well ordred hazard a confusion By those unsanctified pens which write Nothing but what to mischiefe may incite, Inventing still the theory of plots Which none to practise ever thought these sots Bewray their folly; for they want both wit And judgement, for their fables doe not fit The last of probability, which should, Produce such reasons for the tale that's told, That they who heare it may conjecture that It may be true; but these men care not what They write, be't contradictory or not, So they can get the silver by the plot; But (as friends) I friendly them advise, That if hereafter they write any lyes Let them mote likely be then that which was Composed by some short hayr'd, long ear'd Ass, Of a strange plot (beyond immagination To give the Arch-Bishop his free relaxation Out of the Tower by Necromantick spells, Themselves did only know it, but none els. Note how that ancient lyer (most accurst,) A lyer even from the very first Beginning of the world, by's instruments, With subtilty mens judgements circumvents, Making the fabrick of his building all Of lyes, which fooles esteeme Authenticall;

Yet power divine so boundeth him and his, That of there envious aimes they often mis, Shaming themselves (by over reaching) so, That even to fooles, their shame they freely sho, As well appeares in this immagin'd plot, Making the world beleeve that which was not Had such a thing (being 'twas knowne a fiction, And might at hom expect a contradiction) Bin fain'd to be in Cornwall or in Wales, Cumberland, or Yorkeshire; then such tales Perhaps might win beleefe; but heere i'the city Where every child of eight yeares old that's witty, Knowes there was no such thing, oh what disgrace Is this toth' Author durst he show his face, Or set his name toth' fable, stay there sir, Wee'll not be knowne so palpably to er; The aime the Authour shot at is to bring Papists in hatred; 'tis a pious thing. But tell me brother (how orby what chance) Cam'st thou to play on peoples ignorance, Think'st thou the worlds all wild and all men mad, That they'll condeme those whom thou countest bad, Hath not the Honorable Parliament, (That hopefull Senate) wisedome to prevent, Such machinations (if there any were) But who must dictate to them, do'st not feare, Future examinations for such crimes Or dost thou meane ever to trust these times: What is th'archbishop to the Papists that They should adventure life and frrtune at So deare a rate, he never was their friend, Arminians never did on Roome depend; Tis knowne apparently what sad report, Papists may give the High commission Court;

'Twas high indeede for them, two high a rate Poore men did pay: which might exact a hate Rather then love; but charity sayes no, Let law take place, 'tis fit it should be so, Heaven grant his Grace from the well spring of grace, And that he may returne while hee hath space Vnto the throwne of grace; by penetence, Let us not agravate what's his offence: Nor whiles I'm speaking of th'Archbishops case, Let me examine that malicious base, And sencelesse Libell Mercuries Message nam'd, Whom the Authour to recognize was asham'd. And well he might, for amongst his lyes unholy One thing ath' first doth most bewray his folly, And that's the Cronagram which he to make Upon th' Arch-bishops name doth undertake; And by the numegall letters there expresse He would denote the number of the beast Mention'd in the Apocalips which is, Six hundred sixtie six, now censure his, Deduction and doubt not but you'll finde (As I have done) the beast lay's beastly minde, How like a monstrous beast 'twixt dogge and asse He enviously and simply doth passe, His verdiction the man, for thus writes he 'Tis WILL: LAWD, Two V's he numbers ten J one, three L's, Seven score and ten, (thus he his lesson speles) V for five more, D for five hundred, thus He makes sixe hundred sixtie sixt, let us Confesse 'tis true so farre, but to condem The Prisoner, he omits both I and M, Which is the name, and makes the number even, One thovsand sixe hundred sixty seven.

See now this envious Cynick, how to win, Credit 'mongst fooles commits a deadly sin, For surely malice was predominant. Nor can I think the foole so Ignorant; As that he would or could assume to frame; A Chronagram and knew not the right name, Or else his spight was so toth' Bishops that, He would deprive him oth' most part of what, His God-father did give him at the Font. Is this your calculation, out upon't; But should this envious Authour undertake, A Chronagram or Anagram to make; For any one of whom he is a lover, Wer't an unlern'd Translator or a Glover; A Currier or a Weaver, then no doubt, Rather then hee would leave leter out, Hee'd venture to exchange or else to adde, So he could make a good sence of a bad: He would (perhaps) But M. In the N's place, To make it answer to the yeare of grace. But the Arch-Bishop (whom few now applaud) Must be contented to be called Will Laud. But one thing I much marvell at; which is, That he who answerd it, with th' cimphasis, Of wit and sence; who stoutly did defend, the arch-Bishop as his Champion and true friend, Exacting praise from some, from others blame, Yet never censur'd this false chronagram Which negligence and monsterous over-fight, Extenuats his credit who did write, That Vindication; passed as the rest, Without the Authors name: though it is guest, That Thomas Herbert wrote it, but that fame, Rose from th'Acrostick known to be his name,

Written by him ath' end oth' booke, that's all, The reason which indeed's irationall. For no man that's the authour of a booke But sets his name whereon all easly looke Upon the frontispeece (or title page) Vnlesse he be proposterous (like the age,) But let that passe; for I must passe from this To other things, wherein are more amis; More malice; more absurdity, and more Nonsence then any mentioned before, A plot discover'd of an army good, Secretly lurking in a private wood. If any such be in Northhamptonshire Where Souldiers, all unknowne to th' neighbours neere Could lie in ambush such a multitude, And be maintain'd with quotidian-food, With other necessaries fit for men Let any of indifferent judgement scan Each circumstance of this pretended plot, And they will finde the Authour out a Sot: One that so farre beyond all dissability Doth stretch his lyes (which shewes his imbiscility) That even to children he bewraies his shame, One man's the Authour of both plots, his name I since have understood, who on no ground But his pesteferous fancy to confound, Those who ne'er meant him harme That this his poysonous venim spits a broad, Bewraying envy, Ignorance, and spleene And all in vaine, for not one in fifteene Gives credit to's narrations; and those few, That are so confident to thinke all tru••, Are some whose judgements are p••••••••••••cated With malice; people so consop•…•…

In mischife; must by ignorance that they Beleeve what any one can write or say, So't be 'gainst those whom they do affect But any of well govern'd intelect (Whose iudgements are with reason regulated) Will say of Knave and foole naught can be bated, So let him rest till heaven turne his heart, To mixe more charity with his small art, That he and all the rest oth' Pamphletees, May use more fervent prayers, and fewer Ieeres, To practise truth (which all of them pretend, And not their pretious time so lewdly spend In sowing teares of Schismie and debate, By devillish meanes falsehood to propogate; Shaming themselves, not whom they seeke to shame, Blaming of other people, when the blame Upon their owne heads iustly may be layd I doe admire that they are not afrayd, Of divine Iudgement which on them might fall, When against conscience and law rationall, They doe invent such execrable lies, To make men odious in the peoples eyes, Contrary to all charity, and grace Making their fond Chemeras to take place, In stead of solid truth, these are the men Who make a shew of zeale, and conscience when Their deedes and writings 'gainst the publique weale Prove they have neither conscience, truth nor zeale; Charity bids us pray one for another, But brother here vituperates his brother: But why (may some men say) should this man be The onely Censurer; could none but he Espie these 〈◊〉〈◊〉 must he be the only man The workes 〈…〉〈…〉 men to search and scan,

Yes reader whosoev'r thou be I this Must tell thee freely, there good reason is For what is done or to be done, and more Then charity will suffer; which in store, The authour ever keepes to regulate His words and deedes 'gainst all who doe him hate, For he 'bove all the rest hath wronged beene Tasting the bitter gall of hellish spleene, Which these malignant serpents could eiect To make the world his innocence suspect, In diverse pamphlets, what e're currish barker The authour was, he snarl'd at Martin Parter. Nor Borealist by some brother pen, Yet father'd on asect to this end, To bring me in disgrace; as though I had, Bin punisht heretofore for writing bad, Calling me th'Prelats Poet and such tearmes, Which nothing but his spight at all confirmes, For I ne're wrot ith' Bishops cause so much, As now I have on this occasion touch. Another foolish idle defamation That is intitl'd the Popish Proclamation, The unnam'd Authour (as in all a raylor) Ocasion takes to abuse me and Iohn Taylor With Herbert, but wherefore I cannot tell, Nor he himselfe that wrote it very well; For hee one whom though his will were bent, Wanteth abilitie for his intent: And yet he could in his bare garden stuffe, (Which with Tobaco I doe take in snuffe) Take liberty to name me in his Ieeres, But in his workes such plaine nonsence appeares, That I accout his pen to be no slander, From true method he so farre doth wander,

That all who read may judge (if they have wit) That what he writes although his name's to it, Deserves no approbation; yet this lad I malice not, but rather should be glad, To know him change his envy for more skill He can'ot disgrace me, writing what he will. Thus much for him, and indeede all the rest To none I am angry an enemie protest, But wish them more good then themselves will doe, I will be patient and Physitian too.

FINIS.

Notes

• Iohn Thomas.