THE MOCK-ELOGIE ON THE FUNERAL OF Mr. Caryl; Gloriously solemnised, February 25th. 1672/3. by an unparallelled Concourse and Attendance of all Sorts and Sects of People.  

BLess me! what's here? a motley-throng;  
Presbyters, Sectarists among;  
Quakers, with Kiffin and J. O.  
Ranters, with Praise-god Barebones too.  
Here's a new Annus Mirabilis,  
A Miracle This Rabble is;  
Hanging on one string together,  
And All to Church now coming hither:  
A Reformation, sudden as strange:  
What is't has made this happy change?  
Flocking to Church now, One and All?  
Oh! 'tis old Caryl's Funeral.  
Quakers once called him Antichrist,  
And Prebyterian-limb o'th' Beast.  
All sects, but one, used to defy him,  
And would not, whilst he lived, come nigh him.  
Caryl has made Church-converts more,  
Being dead, than ere he did before.  
All these sects are one Heteroclite,  
That worship God chiefly for spite:  
To Church they'll not refuse to go,  
So they may thence their malice show;  
And boast the numbers of their Party,  
And that the Old Cause still is hearty.  
These Pharisees, for th' esteem of men,  
Pray, Bury, Preach; All to be seen.  
All th' modern Orthodox together;  
Wild with his Gout too could hop thither  
To get new Cloak, for writing Verse,  
Pined, like a Coat of Arms, to th' Hearse:  
Like to those snivelling Eulogies  
He made upon the Rebels, Twisse,  
Palmer next, Burroughes, Hill, Gouge, White,  
With Whitaker, who (Wild says) did fight  
As far as York, with Cavaliers,  
And Routed them, with Prayers and tears.  
Well fought Don Quixot: else Wild lies:  
(I had it truly ' mongst his stories;)  
Where, in Blasphemous Eulogies,  
He praises Rebels to the skies,  
And Milton's hackney-Pen outvies,  
On their Urns offering sacrifice.  
Wild, like the Pope, erects an Altar  
For Traitors that deserved an Halter.  
The Pope Saints Loyola: Wild Saints Knox,  
With the rebellious Orthodox,  
Perne, Marshal, Robinson and Strong,  
Peter, Caryl, the rest among.  
The Assembly now are every one  
Called to their last account and gone.  
Caryl bringing the Rear up, thus  
Lieutenant to Smectymnuus.  
Where art thou Iter Boreale?  
Whilst we thus weep, come, tell what ail we:  
Thou! that, when Hugh Peter's died,  
With dirty Rhimes him deified;  
Placing him, in the skies, next Star  
To th' General of our Holy-war  
Essex: Oh Essex! says this Poet,  
Begging o'th' Parliament a Vote,  
That All, as Malignants, should be tried,  
Who smiled that year that Essex died.  
Wild shall Saint both Bawd and Whore;  
If Baber give him ten crowns more.  
For half-ten crowns, he shall in Rhyme,  
God and his own Father Blaspheme;  
And King, Church, Parliament abuse,  
For twelvepences with his Ballad-Muse:  
And make a whining Elegy  
On Father Graybeard, Gregory.  
He, a dead wench, a star did make  
For one crown, and her Father's sake;  
Saying, if th' wench had been a whore,  
It should have cost him as much more.  
Wild had good Glebe, but did forego it,  
To be a Bartholomew Babe (and Poet.)  
Therefore unfit for the Priest's office,  
From which St. Paul rejects the Novice.  
Wild's Cassocks turned, (to tell you true,)  
To Frocks cut out o'th' Aprons blue:  
A Linsey-woolsey Clergyman,  
A Holderforth like Julian:  
A Holy-cheat in meeter, Thus  
Asinum scalpat Asinus.  
Have you not seen a Mountebank's fool sometimes  
Duck-quoy men in, with Trumpet and with Rhimes?  
Jack-pudden Wild for Customers thus stickles,  
He's Merry-Andrew to the Conventicles.   

London! by Plagues, learn to be wise:  
These Rebels have inflamed thee twice:  
With Tumults these did thee inflame,  
To punish which the fire came;  
God took the Rod and laid it on  
For unrepented sedition.  
Lay not the blame on this, or that;  
On Papists, and I know not what:  
Blame thy still-repeated-sin,  
Faction that lies yet within.  
Look this day on this factious Crew,  
They All are of a Different hue:  
Their Features have a several Grace,  
Yet now they seem to have one face.  
What brings to Church All these sects now?  
Right Hypocrites! All's for a show.  
How came all sects thus to combine?  
Oh! I can tell you, 'tis design  
Which makes them All agree in one,  
In what d'ye think? in Sedition.  
Sure Hell's broke loose, for here we have  
Strange Ghosts now walking to the Grave:  
Heavens keep us from this Stygian Race!  
Are these the fruits of Acts of Grace?   
E. H.