Iter Boreale, to the Presbyterian Party. OR, Doctor Wildes Recantation from his Reformed Study, to Mr Calamy in Aldermanburic.  

THis Page I send you, (Good Sir) to rejoice  
That from a Grate I heard thy Newgate-voice.  
O may all Pulpit-Railers have such places,  
To show their Ears in Text, and splay-mouthed Faces!  
Nor need to Steeple upon Steeple set;  
But in a string sooner to Heaven get!   

I can't behold you take into your gills  
Rebellious doses, as men swallow pills;  
Nor let you swim again in Royal Blood,  
Whilst Loyal Souls are drowned in a flood  
Of briny tears, which fitter deemed are  
For your Repentance Stool than Peter's Chair:  
If Peter's chains your fury can't restrain,  
Let Judas' halter be your kerbing Rein;  
Let all your Sermons raise you to such Honours;  
And may you feel worse flames than cruel Bonners:  
May all your Brethren poor Erraticks be,  
And (like fixed Stars) the sacred Bishops see  
immovable within their glorious Spheres,  
Who ravish (like the tuneful Orbs) all ears  
With their harmonious Doctrines; whilst all stare  
At you, as Meteors hanging in the Air:  
Or if you're turned out of your House and Home,  
To a safe Habitation you may come,  
Yclept a Gaol, whilst your shame and disgrace  
Rises both from your crime, and from the place.   

Although reproach and injury was done  
By an Eclipse to the prelatique Sun,  
He only by that black upon his brow  
Allured Spectators more; but so don't you,  
Whose lowering aspect, whose prodigious look,  
Clouded with malcontent, can't Bishop brook,  
Nor King; but, like a Comet, does presage  
A Monarch's Tragedy on England's Stage.   

May every Rod you feel, a Scorpion prove;  
And may you be by Hell's black Gaoler drove.  
Into the deep Abyss. If you are there,  
Newgate must needs a Hell on Earth appear.  
Indeed the place does for your presence call;  
'Tis that which makes it Newgate most of all.  
Thanks to the Bishop, and his good Lord Mayor,  
Who would not let the Church, a House of Prayer,  
Be made a Den of Thiefs; their Prudence knew  
What Cage was fittest for such Birds as you,  
Who (like the railing Thief) dare Christ revile,  
Slay Gods Anointed, and his Church's spoil.   

Now Sir, were I to write your Mittimus,  
The world should know soon why thou'rt dealt with thus:  
The Gaoler, like a Prisoner at the Bar,  
Should set thee forth, and what thy offences are  
Proclaim, and prove, That being dead in Law,  
(As if you cared not for that death a straw)  
You walked, haunted your Church, thinking to scare  
Away the Reader and his Common-Prayer;  
And with your Alphabet of Faces fright  
Your Auditors, worse than a Fiend or Spirit  
Raised from the Shades: Nor did you only walk,  
But (like a Puritan) much nonsense talk.  
Dead, and yet Faction preach? these Kirk's vile Slaves  
Will preach Rebellion in their very Graves.  
You said the Ark was lost, and told a story,  
That Israel divorced was from its Glory:  
The Ark's not safe with you, till Royal Blood  
Support it like the waves of Noah's Flood:  
You'll not the Dove with th' Olive-branch of Peace  
Receive, nor from your late Rebellions cease.  
Item, you played the Thief, and if't be so,  
Good reason (Sir) to Newgate you should go;  
And when you're there, none need to swear you are  
The greatest Pickpocket that e'er came there.   

But your great Theft you acted in your Church:  
I do not mean you did your Sermon lurch;  
That's a small crime with you; but you did pray  
And preach, that you might steal the hearts away  
Of Loyal Subjects, Viperlike, and eat  
Your Mother Churches bowels: This strange feat,  
This Felony deserved imprisonment.  
What? cann't you Non-Conformists be content  
Sermons to make, but you must prate them too?  
They that your places have do Preach, not you.   

Thirdly, 'tis proved, when you pray most devout,  
You leave the (Reverend Fathers) Bishops out:  
Well than may Learned sheldon's powerful spell  
Conjure, and lay you safe in Newgate Hell;  
For (to display my thoughts) there cannot be  
Prepared for you better Company  
Than Roaring Boys; sure mirth you cannot want,  
Whilst they so loud do sing, and you do cant.   

But I'm confined too to as bad a place;  
Let's then for Sympathy compare our case:  
For if in suffering we do both agree,  
Sir, I may challenge you to pity me.  
I am the older Gaol-bird; my hard fate  
Hath kept me twenty years in Cripplegate;  
And were all I deserve conferred on me,  
Thence had I carried been to th' Gallow-tree.  
My Limbs with th' Presbyterian Gout do ache,  
He my fat Body for the Kirk does take,  
Where he resides and tortures every Limb  
That want against the Head rebel with him;  
And causes me against the Church to prove  
So stiff, that I one Article can't move:  
An Enemy to Common-Prayer, he  
Hath from't these twenty years suspended me:  
And in my station if he find me painful,  
I'm sure to go to the Repentance Stool.  
He binds up, looseth, sets up, and pulls down,  
Pretends he draws the Humours from the Crown:  
But I am sure he maketh such ado,  
His Humours ttouble Head and Members too.  
He hath me now in hand, and ere he goes,  
I fear for Heretics he'll burn my Toes.  
O I would give all I am worth, a Fee,  
That from his Jurisdiction I were free.   

Now, Sir, you find our sufferings do agree;  
The Bishop clapped up you, the Kirk hath me.  
But oh! the difference too is very great,  
You are allowed to walk, and drink, and eat:  
I want them all, and never a penny get,  
So much the Preslyter's against me set.   

May then bad Angels and worse Women come  
To make your Prison Hell, and bring your Doom:  
And may it be so, till you do repent  
Of that which caused your Imprisonment;  
May, for the greater torture of your Lives,  
The tortures of your Conscience (than your VVive's  
When she lies in) be worse, and may you see  
Such bitter Satyrs as now come from me.   

I'll now subscribe, and play the Fool no more;  
I'll keep my Parsonage e'er I'll die poor:  
And if by th' Kirk I'm ever more beguiled,  
Let the whole Universe proclaim me Wild;  
For if I don't conform unto the Mitre,  
I've made in vain my Boreale iter.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed in the Year 1663.