A Whetstone for Lyers.
A Song of strange wonders, beleeve them, if you wil,
As true as some Stories that Travellers tell.
To the Tune of With a Tricke that I have.
|
F Rom Barwicke to Dover ,
|
Ten thousand times over,
|
I truely have traveld
|
ten times in a day:
|
From the top of Pauls Steeple,
|
In the sight of all people,
|
To throw my selfe headlong
|
I hold but a toy.
|
From the top of Westminster ,
|
To the middest of Cheape ,
|
I skipt or'e the houses
|
at one standing Leape:
|
Fpom thence unto Greenewitch ,
|
In the sight of many,
|
I bounst o're the Barges,
|
yet never toucht any.
|
From off Richmond Castle,
|
Nine miles into Scotland,
|
Ile run in a morning
|
at one breathing course:
|
Ile march in a minute
|
From Norway to Gothland ,
|
And ne'r be beholding
|
to th' helpe of a Horse:
|
Ile dine at Duke Humphreyes
|
To day at high noone,
|
And the next night at supper
|
Ile meete you at Roome :
|
Ile travel the World,
|
To what place you can name,
|
And never crosse River
|
till I come at the same.
|
Ile walke upon Thames,
|
As well as on dry Land,
|
Without being carry'd
|
in Barge, Ship, or Boat:
|
Ile goe at a high Tide
|
'Twixt London and Gravesend ,
|
As swift as a Wherry
|
I finely can flote:
|
And then without danger
|
Ile passe Yarmouth sand,
|
And bravely and safely
|
at Plimouth Ile Land:
|
Ile goe on a Message
|
Unto the great Turke,
|
Ith' morne; and at night
|
Ile be heere hard at worke.
|
|
|
|
|
The second part. To the same tune.
|
A LL naked in Winter,
|
Ile swim hence to Green-land ,
|
To Russia , Polony ;
|
to Denmarke or Freeze ,
|
And oft in a humour
|
To Holland that fine Land,
|
I run, and come backe,
|
yet no man me sees.
|
I have on a sudden
|
Swom over to Spaine ,
|
At midnight, and heere
|
in the morning againe.
|
All this have I done,
|
As for truth may appeare,
|
And more then all this,
|
as you after shall heare.
|
I likewise have studied
|
The learned vocation,
|
To see how the Starres
|
and the Planets doe move:
|
I know in a minute
|
What's done in all Nations,
|
And for seven yeeres after,
|
what even still shall prove.
|
If French, Turke or Spaniard
|
Against us conspire,
|
Ile burne their whole Armies
|
with balls of wild-fire:
|
The shot of a Cannon
|
I hold but a toy:
|
I kill'd thirty thousand
|
when I was but a Boy.
|
The victuals that would
|
Gargantua sustaine
|
The space of a yeere,
|
I doe hold but a bit:
|
For bring me ten thousands
|
Of Waynes strongly laden,
|
And I in a day
|
will devoure every whit.
|
Of Hogsheads the biggest
|
That's in any house,
|
Ile drinke off twice twenty
|
at a mornings carowse;
|
And blow thorow my nostrils
|
Such a blusterous gale,
|
'Twill make thirty thousand
|
tall Ships for to sayle.
|
Although I have travel'd
|
Through sword and through fire,
|
And past such adventures
|
as never did none,
|
Of all sorts of people,
|
I hate a base Lyer,
|
That talkes of adventures,
|
yet never saw none:
|
If you meete with a Fellow
|
That will prate, brag and lye,
|
Tell him of my Travels,
|
hee'l cease by and by.
|
Thus, wishing true Souldiers
|
True Honours increase,
|
A Fig for base Lyers,
|
and so I will cease.
|
|
Finis .
|
|
|