# The Pennyles Pilgrimage/First poetry section

TAYLOR'S PENNILESS PILGRIMAGE.
IST Lordlings, list (if you have lust to list) I write not here a tale of had I wist: But you shall hear of travels, and relations, Descriptions of strange (yet English) fashions. And he that not believes what here is writ, Let him (as I have done) make proof of it. The year of grace, accounted (as I ween) One thousand twice three hundred and eighteen, And to relate all things in order duly, 'Twas Tuesday last, the fourteenth day of July, Saint Revels day, the almanack will tell ye The sign in Virgo was, or near the belly: The moon full three days old, the wind full south; At these times I began this trick of youth. I speak not of the tide, for understand, My legs I made my oars, and rowed by land,
Though in the morning I began to go
Good fellows trooping, flocked me so,
That make what haste I could, the sun was set,
E're from the gates of London I could get.
At last I took my latest leave thus late,
At the Bell Inn, that's extra Aldersgate.
There stood a horse that my provant should carry,
From that place to the end of my fegary, My horse no horse, or mare, but gelded nag, That with good understanding bore my bag:
And of good carriage he himself did show, These things are excellent in a beast you know.
There in my knapsack, (to pay hunger's fees)
I had good bacon, biscuit, neat's-tongue, cheese
With roses, barberries, of each conserves,
And mithridate, that vigorous health perserves:
And I entreat you take these words for no-lies,
I had good Aqua vitæ, Rosa so-lies:
With sweet Ambrosia, (the gods' own drink)
Most excellent gear for mortals, as I think, Besides, I had both vinegar and oil,
That could a daring saucy stomach foil.
This foresaid Tuesday night 'twixt eight and nine,
Well rigged and ballasted, both with beer and wine,
I stumbling forward, thus my jaunt begun, And went that night as far as Islington.
There did I find (I dare affirm it bold)
A Maidenhead of twenty-five years old, But surely it was painted, like a whore, And for a sign, or wonder, hanged at door,. Which shows a Maidenhead, that's kept so long, May he hanged up, and yet sustain no wrong. There did my loving friendly host begin To entertain me freely to his inn: And there my friends, and good associates, Each one to mirth himself accommodates. At Well-head both for welcome, and for cheer, Having a good New ton, of good stale beer: There did we Trundle down health, after health, (Which oftentimes impairs both health and wealth.) Till everyone had filled his mortal trunk, And only No-body was three parts drunk. The morrow next, Wednesday Saint Swithin's day, From ancient Islington I took my way. At Holywell I was enforced carouse, Ale high, and mighty, at the Blindman's House. But there's a help to make amends for all, That though the ale be great, the pots be small. At Highgate Hill to a strange house I went, And saw the people were to eating bent, In either borrowed, craved, asked, begged, or bought, But most laborious with my teeth I wrought. I did not this, 'cause meat or drink was scant, But I did practise thus before my want; Like to a Tilter that would win the prize,
Before the day he'll often exercise.
So I began to put in use, at first
These principles 'gainst hunger, 'gainst thirst.
Close to the Gate, there dwelt a worthy man,
That well could take his whiff, and quaff his can, Right Robin Good-fellow, but humours evil.
Do call him Robin Pluto, or the devil.
But finding him a devil, freely hearted.
With friendly farewells I took leave and parted.
And as alongst I did my journey take,
I drank at Broom's well, for pure fashion's sake,
Two miles I travelled then without a bait,
The Saracen's Head at Whetstone entering straight,
I found an host, that might lead an host of men,
Exceeding fat, yet named Lean, and Fen.
And though we make small reckoning of him here,
He's known to be a very great man there.
There I took leave of all my company,
Bade all farewell, yet spake to No-body.
Good reader think not strange, what I compile,
For No-body was with me all this while.
And No-body did drink, and, wink, and scink, And on occasion freely spent his chink.
If anyone desire to know the man,
Walk, stumble, Trundle, but in Barbican.
There's as good beer and ale as ever twang'd,
And in that street kind No-body is hanged.
But leaving him unto his matchless fame,
I to St. Albans in the evening came,
Where Master Taylor, at the Saracen's Head,
Unasked (unpaid for) me both lodged and fed.
The tapsters, hostlers, chamberlains, and all,
Saved me a labour, that I need not call,
The jugs were filled and filled, the cups went round, And in a word great kindness there I found,
For which both to my cousin, and his men,
I'll still be thankful in word, deed, and pen.
Till Thursday morning there I made my stay,
And then I went plain Dunstable highway.
My very heart with drought methought did shrink,
I went twelve miles, and no one bade me drink.
Which made me call to mind, that instant time,
That drunkenness was a most sinful crime.
When Puddle-hill I footed down, and past
A mile from thence, I found a hedge at last.
There stroke we sail, our bacon, cheese, and bread,
We drew like fiddlers, and like farmers fed.
And whilst two hours we there did take our ease.
My nag made shift to mump green pulse and peas.
Thus we our hungry stomachs did supply,
And drank the water of a brook hard by.
Away toward Hockley in the Hole, we make,
When straight a horseman did me overtake,
Who knew me, and would fain have given me coin,
I said, my bonds did me from coin enjoin,
I thanked and prayed him to put up his chink,
And willingly I wished it drowned in drink.
Away rode he, but like an honest man,
I found at Hockley standing at the Swan,
A formal tapster, with a jug and glass,
Who did arrest me: I most willing was
To try the action, and straight put in bail,
My fees were paid before, with sixpence ale,
To quit this kindness, I most willing am, The man that paid for all, his name is Dam,
At the Green Dragon, against Grays-Inn gate,
He lives in good repute, and honest state.
I forward went in this my roving race, To Stony Stratford I toward night did pace, My mind was fixed through the town to pass,
To find some lodging in the hay or grass,
But at the Queen's Arm's, from the window there,
A comfortable voice I chanced to hear, Call Taylor, Taylor, and be hanged come hither,
I looked for small entreaty and went thither,
There were some friends, which I was glad to see, Who knew my journey; lodged, and boarded me.
On Friday morn, as I would take my way,
My friendly host entreated me to stay,
Because it rained, he told me I should have
Meat, drink, and horse-meat and not pay or crave.
I thanked him, and for his love remain his debtor,
But if I live, I will requite him better.
(From Stony Stratford) the way hard with stones,
Did founder me, and vex me to the bones.
In blustering weather, both for wind and rain, Through Towcester I trotted with much pain,
Two miles from thence, we sat us down and dined,
Well bulwarked by a hedge, from rain and wind.
We having fed, away incontinent,
With weary pace toward Daventry we went.
Four miles short of it, one overtook me there,
And told me he would leave a jug of beer,
At Daventry at the Horse-shoe for my use.
I thought it no good manners to refuse, But thanked him, for his kind unasked gift,
Whilst I was lame as scarce a leg could lift,
Came limping after to that stony town,
Whose hard streets made me almost halt right down.
There had my friend performed the words he said,
And at the door a jug of liquor staid,
The folks were all informed, before I came,
How, and wherefore my journey I did frame, Which caused mine hostess from her door come out,
(Having a great wart rampant on her snout.)
The tapsters, hostlers, one another call,
The chamberlains with admiration all,
Were filled with wonder, more than wonderful,
As if some monster sent from the Mogul,
Some elephant from Africa, I had been,
Or some strange beast from the Amazonian Queen.
As buzzards, widgeons, woodcocks, and such fowl.
Do gaze and wonder at the broad-faced owl,
So did these brainless asses, all amazed,
With admirable Nonsense talked and gazed,
They knew my state (although not told by me)
That I could scarcely go, they all could see, They drank of my beer, that to me was given, But gave me not a drop to make all even, And that which in my mind was most amiss, My hostess she stood by and saw all this, Had she but said, come near the house my friend,
For this day here shall be your journey's end.
Then had she done the thing which [she] did not,
And I in kinder words had paid the shot.
I do entreat my friends, (as I have some)
If they to Daventry do chance to come,
That they will baulk that inn; or if by chance,
Or accident into that house they glance, Kind gentlemen, as they by you reap profit,
My hostess care of me, pray tell her of it,
Yet do not neither; lodge there when you will,
You for your money shall be welcome still.
From thence that night, although my bones were sore,
I made a shift to hobble seven miles more:
The way to Dunchurch, foul with dirt and mire,
Able, I think, both man and horse to tire.
On Dunsmoor Heath, a hedge doth there enclose
Grounds, on the right hand, there I did repose.
Wit's whetstone, Want, there made us quickly learn,
With knives to cut down rushes, and green fern,
Of which we made a field-bed in the field,
Which sleep, and rest, and much content did yield.
There with my mother earth, I thought it fit
To lodge, and yet no incest did commit:
My bed was curtained with good wholesome airs,
And being weary, I went up no stairs:
The sky my canopy, bright Phœbe shined
Sweet bawling Zephyrus breathed gentle wind,
In heaven's star-chamber I did lodge that night,
Ten thousand stars, me to my bed did light;
There barricadoed with a bank lay we
Below the lofty branches of a tree,
There my bed-fellows and companions were,
My man, my horse, a bull, four cows, two steer:
But yet for all this most confused rout,
We had no bed-staves, yet we fell not out.
Thus nature, like an ancient free upholster,
Did furnish us with bedstead, bed, and bolster;
And the kind skies, (for which high heaven be thanked,)
Allowed us a large covering and a blanket;
Auroras face 'gan light our lodging dark,
We arose and mounted, with the mounting lark,
Through plashes, puddles, thick, thin, wet and dry,
I travelled to the city Coventry.
There Master Doctor Holland caused me stay
The day of Saturn and the Sabbath day.
Most friendly welcome, he me did afford,
I was so entertained at bed and board,
Which as I dare not brag how much it was,
I dare not be ingrate and let it pass,
But with thanks many I remember it,
(Instead of his good deeds) in words and writ,
He used me like his son, more than a friend,
And he on Monday his commends did send
To Newhall, where a gentleman did dwell, Who by his name is hight Sacheverell,
The Tuesday July's one and twentieth day,
I to the city Lichfield took my way,
At Sutton Coldfield with some friends I met,
And much ado I had from thence to get,
There I was almost put unto my trumps,
My horse's shoes were worn as thin as pumps;
But noble Vulcan, a mad smuggy smith,
All reparations me did furnish with.
The shoes were well removed, my palfrey shod,
And he referred the payment unto God.
I found a friend, when I to Lichfield came,
A joiner, and John Piddock is his name.
He made me welcome, for he knew my jaunt,
And he did furnish me with good provant:
He offered me some money, I refused it,
And so I took my leave, with thanks excused it,
That Wednesday, I a weary way did pass,
Rain, wind, stones, dirt, and dabbling dewy grass,
With here and there a pelting scattered village,
Which yielded me no charity, or pillage:
For all the day, nor yet the night that followed.
One drop of drink I'm sure my gullet swallowed.
At night I came to a stony town called Stone.
Where I knew none, nor was I known of none:
I therefore through the streets held on my pace, Some two miles farther to some resting place:
At last I spied a meadow newly mowed,
The hay was rotten, the ground half o'erflowed:
We made a breach, and entered horse and man,
There our pavilion, we to pitch began,
Which we erected with green broom and hay,
To expel the cold, and keep the rain away;
The sky all muffled in a cloud 'gan lower,
And presently there fell a mighty shower,
Which without intermission down did pour,
From ten a night, until the morning's four.
We all that time close in our couch did lie,
Which being well compacted kept us dry.
Thw worst was, we did neither sup nor sleep, And so a temperate diet we did keep. The morning all enrobed in drifting fogs, We being as ready as we had been dogs: We need not stand upon long ready making, But gaping, stretching, and our ears well shaking: And for I found my host and hostess kind, I like a true man left my sheets behind. That Thursday morn, my weary course I framed, Unto a town that is Newcastle named. (Not that Newcastle standing upon Tyne) But this town situation doth confine Near Cheshire, in the famous county Stafford, And for their love, I owe them not a straw for't; But now my versing muse craves some repose, And whilst she sleeps I'll spout a little prose.
* ↑ Provant.—Provender; provision.
* ↑ Fegary.—A vagary.
* ↑ Trundle.—i.e., John Trundle of the sign of No-hody (see note page 6).
* ↑ It is reasonable to conjecture that at this date the custom of "Swearing-in at Highgate was not in vogue—or, No-body would have taken the oath.
* ↑ Named Lean and Fen.—Some jest is intended here on the Host's name.—Qy., Leanfen, or, the anagram of A. Fennel.
* ↑ No-Body was the singular sign of John Trundle, a ballad-printer in Barbican in the seventeenth century [and who seems to have accompanied our author as far as Whetstone on his "Penniless Pilgrimage"—and, certainly up to this point a very "wet" one!] In one of Ben Jonson's plays Nobody is introduced, "attyred in a payre of Breeches, which were made to come up to his neck, with his armes out at his pockets and cap drowning his face." This comedy was "printed for John Trundle and are to be sold at his shop in Barbican at the sygne of No-Body." A unique ballad, preserved in the Miller Collection at Britwell House, entitled "The Well-spoken No-body," is accompanied by a woodcut representing a ragged barefooted fool on pattens, with a torn money-bag under his arm, walking through a chaos of broken pots, pans, bellows, candlesticks, tongs, tools, windows, &c. Above him is a scroll in black-letter:— "Nobody . is . my . name . that . Beyreth . Every . Bodyes . Blame." The ballad commences as follows:— "Many speke of Robin Hoode that never shott in his bowe, So many have layed faultes to me, which I did never knowe; But nowe, beholde, here I am, Whom all the worlde doeth diffame; Long have they also scorned me, And locked my mouthe for speking free. As many a Godly man they have so served Which unto them God's truth hath shewed; Of such they have burned and hanged some. That unto their ydolatrye wold not come: The Ladye Truthe they have locked in cage, Saying of her Nobodye had knowledge. For as much nowe as they name Nobodye I thinke verilye they speke of me: Whereffore to answere I nowe beginne— The locke of my mouthe is opened with ginne, Wrought by no man, but by God's grace, Unto whom he prayse in every place," &c. Larwood and Hotten's History of Signboards.
* ↑ Pulse.—All sorts of leguminous seeds.
* ↑ See Dedication to The Scourge of Baseness.
* ↑ Master Doctor Holland.—The once well-known Philemon Holland, Physician, and "Translator-General of his Age," published translations of Livy, 1600; Pliny's "Natural History," 1601; Camden's "Britannica," &c. He is said to have used in translation more paper and fewer pens than any other writer before or since, and who "would not let Suetonius be Tranquillus." Born at Chelmsford, 1551; died 1636.