THESE For his old Friend Doctor WILD AUTHOR Of the Humble THANKS, etc.  
SIR.  

HAd I believed report, that said,  
These Rhymes by Doctor Wyld were made,  
I long before this time had sent  
Some symptoms of our discontent.  
For since ye have left off being witty,  
Your humble thanks deserves our pity.   

I can't imagine what you'll do,  
Your Muse turned Nonconformist to?  
And will not easily dispense  
With the old way of writing sense!  
She hath received, if that be true,  
As much Indulgence then as you.   

Surely (Dear Sir) you did not pray  
Since you conversed with Tychobrah.  
Jove played the wag, and Luna pissed,  
Do these things with Freegrace consist?   

Celestial signs serve to express  
The good man's heavenly mindedness;  
There are but twelve of them in Heaven,  
Yet he'll name one by one eleven;  
And if you're not in too much haste,  
'tis ten to one, he names the last.   

You had been horribly put to't,  
If Sagittarius could not shoot:  
Aquarius and the Smyrna Fleet,  
I'll swear, a very good conceit.   

But, Doctor, let us know, why will ye  
Thus vex yourself at William Lily:  
'tis true, he could not find it out,  
That March would bring all this about;  
But on that day you well might gather  
That there would be some change of weather:  
And change of weather in a Nation  
Portends a kind of alteration.   

This favour, you do say, did come  
Fragrant and full of all perfume,  
Like Eastern Spices (it should seem)  
This had done rarely in a Theme.  
To the next Column— let us see  
How you discourse His MAJESTY.  
Where every solemn Epithet  
Does look like Grace before you eat,  
Which being said, as rudely you  
Do take the Boldness to fall to,  
With Rhymes most reverently sent  
About Pope Clement's Fundament,  
And Puns that would provoke the hate  
Of any under Graduate.  
Peter Non-con (it seems) must pray,  
And Judas Church must take the Pay.  
Some angry men would call him rude Ass,  
That calls the Church of ENGLAND Judas.  
You'll be no Bishop, nor no Curate,  
'Tis only Minister that you're at.  
Minister! It sounds methinks,  
Like Pastor Clark of Bennet Fynkes.   

These Favours which the King doth heap  
Upon your head, hath made you leap.  
And since ye have found your feet again,  
The Gout's got up into your Brain:  
If capering be so fine a thing,  
Prithee come over for the King.   
Your humble Servant, OBEDIAH.  

Ill Painters when they make a Sign  
Either of Talbot or of Swine,  
To satisfy all Persons rogant,  
That they might make a Hog, or Dog on't;  
Do never think it any shame  
To underwrite the Creatures Name.  
WILD made some Verses you must know  
ITER BOREALE is below.    

LONDON, Printed for T. D. 1672.