AN ANSWER TO Old Doctor Wild's New Poem, TO HIS OLD FRIEND, UPON THE NEW PARLIAMENT.  By Grandsire Graybeard, the Younger. 
THus 'tis to stand Condemned by rigorous Fate  
To the vile Plague of a Poetic Pate:  
The Itch of Rhyming where it once does seize,  
Becomes a more Incurable Disease  
Than Pox or Scurvy: Harder 'tis to rout  
WILD 's Scribbling humour, than to Charm his Gout.  
An Old Man's twice a Child, I heard folks say,  
But never more, than when he would seem Gay,  
And does with Jingling Hobby-horses play:  
When sprightly Fancy's gone, the doting Bungler  
Mounts the brisk Muse, but proves an errand Fumbler;  
Gets only Puling Verse, languid and thin,  
Not to be called a Birth, but Souterkin.  
Sorry dull Puns, and Nauseating Quibbles,  
Worse than old Crab-i'th-wood, or Belman Scribbles.  
Just so Sir Limberham that scarce can crawl,  
Will on his Venus, and his Cupids call;  
And drains Five hundred Pieces from his Purse  
To keep a Miss, when more he wants a Nurse.  
But tell me Reverend Songster! was it fit  
Thy Doctorship should thus the Pulpit quit,  
To Revel in such Babylonish Wit?  
Thy very Friends when they thy Poem scan,  
Say only— He's a Towardly old Man.  
Though thou forgot'st thy Calling, Age, Degree,  
This Subject sure should curb thy Levity  
To treat of PARLIAMENTS at such a rate,  
In fulsome Metaphors of Billingsgate,  
Before th' August Illustrious Senate come,  
And strait turn up, (sans shame,) thy Aged Bum  
Deserves a Lash from the Black Rod at least  
To make th' Old Baby smart for the lewd Jest,  
Amongst so many Olds as thou dost trace,  
'Tis strange the Good Old Cause obtained no place.  
Then Poor Dissenter bravely might Ascend  
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end,  
And Hold forth Godly Sonnets to his Friend.  
We all are Joyed at present Face of Things,  
And thank both heavens kind Influence, and the Kings;  
ROME'S Vultures, nor the gallic Cocks we fear,  
Safe in our watchful Eagles Royal Care:  
Yet love not to run mad, and Dance the Hay,  
As stung (like thee) with a Tarantula:  
Who ere thy greasy Tale of Pork does view,  
Suspects thee for the By-blow of a Jew.  
Thy Grandam when she burned th'old Stock, was cruel,  
Not Bees but Wasps deserve to be made Fuel:  
Good Housewives do not think her Method safe,  
To Drive is better than to Burn by half;  
But these Wild Sallies do too plainly show,  
Thou dost but Cackle when thou thoughtst to Crow.  
Treating of Richest Robes of State, and Ermine,  
Thou just like some Pot-Poets Cousin German  
Bethinks thee of th'own threadbare clothes & Vermin.  
Then criest to Longlane with them New put on;  
Sweet Sir! 'tis timely thought of, may't be done.  
But best make haste ere Ketches Wardrobe's gone.  
Thinkst thou (WILD as thou art:) such Language meet  
T'approach the Sovereign Legislative Seat?  
Pardon Great Senate! that his Frenzy drew  
Me to the Rudeness here of naming You.  
The haughtiest Subjects tremble when they come  
To Your Just Bar, and dread th' Impartial Doom.  
Fair Copy of Heaven's Policy! the same  
Idea that rules the Universal Frame,  
Where Nobles, as the Fixed Stars do shine  
In Honour's Firmament; And Rays Divine  
From Reverend Fathers of the Church are spread,  
To strike both Schism and Superstition dead.  
Next, Sages of the Law, as Planets trace  
Their Circuits, to enliven in each place  
Those needful ACTS which here are framed, and deal  
Distributive Justice for the Public weal.  
Then COMMONS as full Constellations, join,  
And their Wise Counsels solemnly Combine,  
Whilst Sacred Majesty encircled round  
With Native Glory, as the Sun, is found  
Beaming his Acts of Grace so free and bright,  
That all from Him borrow both Heat and Light.  
Healing Assembly! whensoe'er you meet,  
The People's Choice, and the KING'S Wishes greet:  
Their Liberties, His Honour, You mantain,  
O let them ne'er be Differenced again!  
In his own proper Orb let each Star move,  
Not Jostling those Below, nor them Above.  
Let no False Fires their dazzling Beams display,  
Nor upstart Meteors interrupt your way:  
All Your Debates let Moderation Calm,  
And Your Results become the Nation's Balm.  
Those little Foxes that the Land Defile,  
And seek our Vine and Tender Grapes to spoil,  
Unkennel them; and let ROME'S Conclave see,  
In vain they PLOT, whilst You our Guardians be.  
May Heaven all Your Consultations Bless,  
And all Good Men pray for your wished Success.  

But our Old Busy Rhymer we shall lose,  
Who Hawks and Kites, and blind Buzzards pursues,  
Until at last like a bewildered Jolt-head,  
His Muse has all her Borrowed Feathers moulted.  
Age makes all stoop— How fast the Man descends?  
Commences Doctor, and Poor Robin, Ends.   
FINIS.