Iter Boreale

Foure clerkes of Oxford, doctours two, and twoThat would be doctors, having lesse to doWith Augustine then with Galen in vacation,Chang’d studyes, and turn’d bookes to recreation:And on the tenth of August, northward bentA journey, not so soon conceiv’d as spent.The first halfe day they rode, they light uponA noble cleargy host, Kitt Middleton;Who, numb’ring out good dishes with good tales,The major part o’ th’ cheere weigh’d downe the scales:And though the countenance makes the feast, (say bookes,)Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes.Here wee pay’d thankes and parted; and at nightHad entertainement, all in one mans right,At Flore, a village; where our tenant shee,Sharp as a winters morning, feirce yet free,With a leane visage, like a carved faceOn a court cupboard, offer’d up the place.Shee pleas’d us well; but, yet, her husband better;A harty fellow, and a good bone-setter.Now, whether it were providence or lucke,Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke,There wee had ven’son; such as Virgill slewWhen he would feast Æneas and his crew.Here wee consum’d a day; and the third morneTo Daintry with a land-wind were wee borne.It was the market and the lecture-day,For lecturers sell sermons, as the layDoe sheep and oxen; have their seasons justFor both their marketts: there wee dranke downe dust.In th’ interim comes a most officious drudge,His face and gowne drawne out with the same budge;His pendant pouch, which was both large and wide,Lookt like a letters-patent by his side:He was as awfull, as he had bin sentFrom Moses with th’ elev’nth commandement;And one of us he sought; a sonne of FloreHe must bid stand, and challendge for an hower.The doctors both were quitted of that feare,The one was hoarce, the other was not there;Wherefore him of the two he seazed, bestAble to answere him of all the rest:Because hee neede but ruminate that oreWhich he had chew’d the Sabbath-day before.And though he were resolv’d to doe him right,For Mr. Balyes sake, and Mr. Wright,Yet he dissembled that the mace did erre;That he nor deacon was, nor minister.No! quoth the serjeant; sure then, by relation,You have a licence, sir, or toleration:And if you have no orders ’tis the better,So you have Dods Præcepts, or Cleavers Letters.Thus looking on his mace, and urging stillTwas Mr. Wrights and Mr. Bayleyes willThat hee should mount; at last he condiscendedTo stopp the gapp; and so the treaty ended.The sermon pleas’d, and, when we were to dine,Wee all had preachers wages, thankes and wine.Our next dayes stage was Lutterworth, a towneNot willing to be noted or sett downeBy any traveller; for, when w’ had binThrough at both ends, wee could not finde an inne:Yet, for the church sake, turne and light wee must,Hoping to see one dramme of Wickliffs dust;But wee found none: for underneath the poleNoe more rests of his body then his soule.Abused martyr! how hast thou bin torneBy two wilde factions! First, the Papists burneThy bones for hate; the Puritans, in zeale,They sell thy marble, and thy brasse they steale.A parson mett us there, who had good storeOf livings, some say, but of manners more;In whose streight chearefull age a man might seeWell govern’d fortune, bounty wise and free.He was our guide to Leister, save one mile,There was his dwelling, where wee stay’d awhile,And dranke stale beere, I thinke was never new,Which the dun wench that brought it us did brew.And now wee are at Leister, where wee shallLeape ore six steeples, and one hospitallTwice told; but those great landmarkes I referrTo Camdens eye, Englands chorographer.Let mee observe that almesmans heraldrye,Who being ask’d, what Henry that should beThat was their founder, duke of Lancaster,Answer’d: Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you, sir;And so confuted all the walles, which saydHenry of Grisemond this foundation layd.The next thing to be noted was our cheere,Enlarg’d, with seav’ne and sixpence bread and beere!But, oh you wretched tapsters as you are,Who reckon by our number, not your ware,And sett false figures for all companyes,Abusing innocent meales with oathes and lyes;Forbeare your coos’nage to Divines that come,Least they be thought to drinke up all your summe.Spare not the Laity in your reckoning thus,But sure your theft is scandalous to us.Away, my muse, from this base subject, knowThy Pegasus nere strooke his foote soe low.Is not th’ usurping Richard buryed here,That king of hate, and therefore slave of feare;Dragg’d from the fatall feild Bosworth, where heeLost life, and, what he liv’d for,—cruelty?Search; find his name: but there is none. Oh kings!Remember whence your power and vastnesse springs;If not as Richard now, so shall you bee;Who hath no tombe, but scorne and memorye.And though that Woolsey from his store might saveA pallace, or a colledge for his grave,Yet there he lyes interred as if allOf him to be remembred were his fall.Nothing but earth to earth, no pompeous waightUpon him, but a pibble or a quaite.If thou art thus neglected, what shall weeHope after death, who are but shreads of thee?Hold! William calls to horse; William is hee,Who, though he never saw threescore and three,Ore-reckons us in age, as he beforeIn drink, and will baite nothing of foure score:And he commands, as if the warrant cameFrom the great earle himselfe of Nottingham.There wee crost Trent, and on the other sidePrayd to Saint Andrew; and up hill wee ride.Where wee observ’d the cunning men, like moles,Dwell not in howses, but were earth’t in holes;So did they not builde upwards, but digg thorough,As hermitts caves, or conyes do their borough:Great underminers sure as any where;Tis thought the Powder-traitors practis’d there.Would you not thinke the men stood on their heads,When gardens cover howses there, like leades;And on the chymneyes topp the mayd may knowWhether her pottage boyle or not, below;There cast in hearbes, and salt, or bread; their meateContented rather with the smoake then heate?This was the Rocky-Parish; higher stoodChurches and houses, buildings stone and wood;Crosses not yet demolish’t; and our LadyeWith her armes on, embracing her whole Baby.Where let us note, though those are northerne parts,The Crosse finds in them more then southerne hearts.The Castle’s next; but what shall I reportOf that which is a ruine, was a fort?The gates two statues keepe, which gyants are,To whome it seemes committed was the careOf the whole downfall. If it be your fault;If you are guilty; may king Davids vault,Or Mortimers darke hole, contain you both!A just reward for so prophane a sloth.And if hereafter tidings shall be broughtOf any place or office to be bought,And the left lead, or unwedg’d timber yetShall pass by your consent to purchase it;May your deformed bulkes endure the edgeOf axes, feele the beetle and the wedge!May all the ballads be call’d in and dye,Which sing the warrs of Colebrand and sir Guy!Oh you that doe Guild-hall and Holmeby keepeSoe carefully, when both the founders sleepe,You are good giants, and partake no shameWith those two worthlesse trunkes of Nottinghame:Looke to your severall charges; wee must goe,Though greiv’d at heart to leave a castle so.The Bull-head is the word, and wee must eate;Noe sorrow can descend soe deepe as meate:So to the inne wee come; where our best cheereWas, that his grace of Yorke had lodged there:Hee was objected to us when wee call,Or dislike ought: “My lords grace” answers all:“Hee was contented with this bed, this dyett.”That keepes our discontented stomackes quiett.The inne-keeper was old, fourescore allmost,Indeede an embleme rather then an host;In whome wee read how God and Time decreeTo honour thrifty ostlers, such as hee.For in the stable first he did begin;Now see hee is sole lord of the whole inne:Mark the encrease of straw and hay, and how,By thrift, a bottle may become a mow.Marke him, all you that have the golden itch,All whome God hath condemned to be rich.Farwell, glad father of thy daughter Maris,Thou ostler-phœnix, thy example rare is.Wee are for Newarke after this sad talke;And whither tis noe journey, but a walke.Nature is wanton there, and the high-waySeem’d to be private, though it open lay;As if some swelling lawyer, for his health,Or frantick usurer, to tame his wealth,Had chosen out ten miles by Trent, to tryeTwo great effects of art and industry.The ground wee trodd was meddow, fertile land,New trimm’d and levell’d by the mowers hand;Above it grew a roke, rude, steepe, and high,Which claimes a kind of reverence from the eye:Betwixt them both there glides a lively streame,Not loud, but swifte: Mæander was a theameCrooked and rough; but had the poetts seeneStraight, even Trent, it had immortall bin.This side the open plaine admitts the sunneTo halfe the river; there did silver runne:The other halfe ran clowdes; where the curl’d woodWith his exalted head threaten’d the floude.Here could I wish us ever passing byAnd never past; now Newarke is too nigh:And as a Christmas seemes a day but short,Deluding time with revells and good sport;So did these beauteous mixtures us beguile,And the whole twelve, being travail’d, seem’d a mile.Now as the way was sweet, soe was the end;Our passage easy, and our prize a friend,Whome there wee did enjoy; and for whose sake,As for a purer kinde of coyne, men makeUs liberall welcome; with such harmonyAs the whole towne had bin his family.Mine host of the next inne did not repineThat wee preferr’d the Heart, and past his signe:And where wee lay, the host and th’ hostesse faineWould shew our love was aym’d at, not their gaine:The very beggars were s’ ingenious,They rather prayd for him, then begg’d of us.And, soe the Doctors friends will please to stay,The Puritans will let the organs play.Would they pull downe the gallery, builded new,With the church-wardens seat and Burleigh-pew,Newarke, for light and beauty, might compareWith any church, but what cathedralls are.To this belongs a vicar, who succededThe friend I mention’d; such a one there needed;A man whose tongue and life is eloquent,Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent,And urge the Canon home, when they conspireAgainst the crosse and bells with swords and fire.There stood a Castle, too; they shew us hereThe roome where the King slep’t, the window whereHe talk’t with such a lord, how long he staidIn his discourse, and all, but what he said.From hence, without a perspective, wee seeBever and Lincolne, where wee faine would bee;But that our purse and horses both are boundWithin the circuite of a narrower ground.Our purpose is all homeward, and ’twas timeAt parting to have witt, as well as rime;Full three a clock, and twenty miles to ride,Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure guide;Wee wanted both: and Loughborow may glory,Errour hath made it famous in our story.Twas night, and the swifte horses of the SunneTwo houres before our jades their race had runn;Noe pilott moone, nor any such kinde starreAs governd those wise men that came from farreTo holy Bethlem; such lights had there bin,They would have soone convay’d us to an inne;But all were wandring-starrs; and wee, as they,Were taught noe course, but to ride on and stray.When (oh the fate of darknesse, who hath tride it)Here our whole fleete is scatter’d and divided;And now wee labour more to meete, then erstWee did to lodge; the last cry drownes the first:Our voyces are all spent, and they that followCan now no longer track us by the hollow;They curse the formost, wee the hindmost, bothAccusing with like passion, hast, and sloth.At last, upon a little towne wee fall,Where some call drinke, and some a candle call:Unhappy wee, such stragglers as wee areAdmire a candle offner then a starre:Wee care not for those glorious lampes a loofe,Give us a tallow-light and a dry roofe.And now wee have a guide wee cease to chafe,And now w’ have time to pray the rest be safe.Our guide before cryes Come, and wee the whileRide blindfold, and take bridges for a stile:Till at the last wee overcame the darke,And spight of night and errour hitt the marke.Some halfe howre after enters the whole tayle,As if they were committed to the jayle:The constable, that tooke them thus divided,Made them seeme apprehended, and not guided:Where, when wee had our fortunes both detested,Compassion made us friends, and so wee rested.’Twas quickly morning, though by our short stayWee could not find that wee had lesse to pay.All travellers, this heavy judgement heare:“A handsome hostesse makes the reckoning deare;”Her smiles, her wordes, your purses must requite them,And every wellcome from her, adds an item.Glad to be gon from thence at any rate,For Bosworth wee are horst: Behold the stateOf mortall men! Foule Errour is a mother,And, pregnant once, doth soone bring forth an other;Wee, who last night did learne to loose our way,Are perfect since, and farther out next day.And in a forrest having travell’d sore,Like wandring Bevis ere hee found the bore;Or as some love-sick lady oft hath donne,Ere shee was rescued by the Knight of th’ Sunne:Soe are wee lost, and meete no comfort thenBut carts and horses, wiser then the men.Which is the way? They neyther speake nor point;Their tongues and fingers both were out of joynt:Such monsters by Coal-Orton bankes there sitt,After their resurrection from the pitt.Whilst in this mill wee labour and turne roundAs in a conjurers circle, William foundA menes for our deliverance: Turne your cloakes,Quoth hee, for Puck is busy in these oakes:If ever yee at Bosworth will be found,Then turne your cloakes, for this is Fayry-ground.But, ere this witchcraft was perform’d, wee mettA very man, who had no cloven feete;Though William, still of little faith, doth doubtTis Robin, or some sprite that walkes about:Strike him, quoth hee, and it will turne to ayre;Crosse your selves thrice and strike it: Strike that dare,Thought I, for sure this massy forresterIn stroakes will prove the better conjurer.But twas a gentle keeper, one that knewHumanity, and manners where they grew;And rode along soe farr till he could say,See yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way.And now when wee had swett ’twixt sunn and sunn,And eight miles long to thirty broad had spun;Wee learne the just proportion from henceOf the diameter and circumference.That night yet made amends; our meat and sheetesWere farr above the promise of those streetes;Those howses, that were tilde with straw and mosse,Profest but weake repaire for that dayes losseOf patience: yet this outside lets us know,The worthyest things make not the bravest show:The shott was easy; and what concernes us more,The way was so; mine host doth ride before.Mine host was full of ale and history;And on the morrow when hee brought us nighWhere the two Roses joyn’d, you would suppose,Chaucer nere made the Romant of the Rose.Heare him. See yee yon wood? There Richard lay,With his whole army: Looke the other way,And loe where Richmond in a bed of gorsseEncampt himselfe ore night, and all his force:Upon this hill they mett. Why, he could tellThe inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell:Besides what of his knowledge he could say,He had authenticke notice from the Play;Which I might guesse, by’s mustring up the ghosts,And policyes, not incident to hosts;But cheifly by that one perspicuous thing,Where he mistooke a player for a king.For when he would have sayd, King Richard dyed,And call’d—A horse! a horse!—he, Burbidge cry’de.Howere his talke, his company pleas’d well;His mare went truer then his chronicle;And even for conscience sake, unspurr’d, unbeaten,Brought us six miles, and turn’d tayle at Nuneaton.From thence to Coventry, where wee scarcely dine;Our stomackes only warm’d with zeale and wine:And then, as if wee were predestin’d forth,Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth.The keeper of the castle was from home,Soe that halfe mile wee lost; yet when wee comeAn host receiv’d us there, wee’l nere deny him,My lord of Leisters man; the parson by him,Who had no other proofe to testifyHe serv’d the Lord, but age and baudery.Away, for shame, why should foure miles devideWarwicke and us? They that have horses ride.A short mile from the towne, an humble shrineAt foote of an high rock consists, in signeOf Guy and his devotions; who there standsUgly and huge, more then a man on ’s hands:His helmett steele, his gorgett mayl, his sheildBrass, made the chappell fearefull as a feild.And let this answere all the Popes complaints;Wee sett up gyants though wee pull downe saintes.Beyond this, in the roadway as wee went,A pillar stands, where this Colossus leant;Where he would sigh and love, and, for hearts ease,Oftimes write verses (some say) such as these:“Here will I languish in this silly bower,Whilst my true love triumphes in yon high tower.”No other hinderance now, but wee may passeCleare to our inne: Oh there an hostesse was,To whome the Castle and the Dun Cow areSights after dinner; shee is morning ware.Her whole behaviour borrowed was, and mixt,Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixtMeasure and jigge; her court’sy was an honour;Her gate, as if her neighbour had out-gon her.Shee was barrd up in whale-bones which doe leeseNone of the whales length; for they reach’d her knees:Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle:As her wast stands, shee lookes like the new fiddle,The favorite Theorbo, (truth to tell yee,)Whose neck and throat are deeper then the belly.Have you seene monkyes chain’d about the loynes,Or pottle-potts with rings? Just soe shee joynesHer selfe together: A dressing shee doth loveIn a small print below, and text above.What though her name be King, yet tis noe treason,Nor breach of statute, for to aske the reasonOf her brancht ruffe, a cubit every poke:I seeme to wound her, but shee strook the strokeAt our departure; and our worshipps therePay’d for our titles deare as any where:Though beadles and professors both have done,Yet every inne claimes augmentation.Please you walke out and see the Castle? Come,The owner saith, it is a schollers home;A place of strength and health: in the same fort,You would conceive a castle and a court.The orchards, gardens, rivers, and the aire,Doe with the trenches, rampires, walls, compare:It seemes nor art nor force can intercept it,As if a lover built, a souldier kept it.Up to the tower, though it be steepe and high,Wee doe not climbe but walke; and though the eyeSeeme to be weary, yet our feet are stillIn the same posture cozen’d up the hill:And thus the workemans art deceaves our sence,Making those rounds of pleasure a defence.As wee descend, the lord of all this frame,The honorable Chancellour, towards us came.Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,Yet now we see a gentler gale beneath.The phrase and wellcome of this knight did makeThe seat more elegant; every word he spakeWas wine and musick, which he did exposeTo us, if all our art could censure those.With him there was a prelate, by his placeArch-deacon to the byshopp, by his faceA greater man; for that did counterfeitLord abbot of some covent standing yet,A corpulent relique: marry and tis sinneSome Puritan gets not his face call’d in;Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,Who seeke for parity in every thing.For us, let him enjoy all that God sends,Plenty of flesh, of livings, and of freinds.Imagine here us ambling downe the street,Circling in Flower, making both ends meet:Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complain,Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine:And on the feast of Barthol’mew wee tryWhat revells that saint keepes at Banbury.In th’ name of God, Amen! First to begin,The altar was translated to an inne;Wee lodged in a chappell by the signe,But in a banquerupt taverne by the wine:Besides, our horses usage made us thinkeTwas still a church, for they in coffins drinke;As if twere congruous that the ancients lyeClose by those alters in whose faith they dye.Now yee beleeve the Church hath good varietyeOf monuments, when inns have such satiety;But nothing lesse: ther’s no inscription there,But the church-wardens names of the last yeare:Instead of saints in windowes and on walls,Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls:Would you not sweare they love antiquity,Who brush the quire for perpetuity?Whilst all the other pavement and the flooreAre supplicants to the surveyors powerOf the high wayes, that he would gravell keepe;For else in winter sure it will be deepe.If not for Gods, for Mr. Wheatlyes sakeLevell the walkes; suppose these pittfalls makeHim spraine a lecture, or misplace a joyntIn his long prayer, or his fiveteenth point:Thinke you the dawes or stares can sett him right?Surely this sinne upon your heads must light.And say, beloved, what unchristian charmeIs this? you have not left a legg or armeOf an apostle: think you, were they whole,That they would rise, at least assume a soule?If not, ’tis plaine all the idolatryLyes in your folly, not th’ imagery.Tis well the pinnacles are falne in twaine;For now the divell, should he tempt againe,Hath noe advantage of a place soe high:Fooles, he can dash you from your gallery,Where all your medly meete; and doe compare,Not what you learne, but who is longest there;The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,Like a grand sallet: Tinkers, what a towne ist?The crosses also, like old stumps of trees,Are stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees;Carry noe heads above ground: They which tell,That Christ hath nere descended into hell,But to the grave, his picture buried haveIn a far deeper dungeon then a grave:That is, descended to endure what painesThe divell can think, or such disciples braines.No more my greife, in such prophane abusesGood whipps make better verses then the muses.Away, and looke not back; away, whilst yetThe church is standing, whilst the benefittOf seeing it remaines; ere long you shallHave that rac’t downe, and call’d Apocryphal,And in some barne heare cited many an author,Kate Stubbs, Anne Askew, or the Ladyes daughter;Which shall be urg’d for fathers. Stopp Disdaine,When Oxford once appears, Satyre refraine.Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out gon ’s?Is not Saint Giles’s this, and that Saint Johns?Wee are return’d; but just with soe much oreAs Rawleigh from his voyage, and noe more.