Iter Boreale. With large Additions of several other POEMS BEING An EXACT COLLECTION of all hitherto Extant.  
Never before Published together.  
The Author R. Wild, D. D.  
Printed for the Booksellers in London; MDCLXVIII.   

 House of Hanover bookplate 
MUNIFICENTIA REGIA. 1715.  
GEORGIUS D. G. MAG. BR. FR. ET HIB. REX F. D.  J. P●●● Sculp   


Iter Boreale. Attempting something upon the Successful and Matchless March of the LORD GENERAL George Monck, From SCOTLAND to LONDON, in the Winter, 1659.  

I.  
THe day is broke! Melpomene, be gone;  
Hag of my Fancy, let me now alone:  
Nightmare my Soul no more; Go take thy flight  
Where Traitors Ghosts keep an eternal night;  
Flee to Mount Caucasus, and bear thy part  
With the black fowl that tears Prometheus' heart  
For his bold Sacrilege: Go fetch the groans  
Of defunct Tyrants, with them croak thy Tones;  
Go see Allecto with her flaming whip,  
How she fi●ks Nol, and makes old Bradshaw skip:  
Go make thyself away,— Thou shalt no more  
Choke up my Standish with the blood and gore  
Of English Tragedies: I now will choose  
The merriest of the nine to be my Muse:  
And come what will, ●le scribble once again:  
The 〈◊〉 Sword hath cut the nobler Vein  
Of racy Poetry. Our small-drink-times  
Must be contented, and take up with Rhimes.  
They're sorry toys from a poor Levites pack,  
Whose Living and Assessments drink no Sack.  
The Subject will excuse the Verse (I trow)  
The Venus son's fat, although the crust be dough.   

II.  
I He who whilom sat and sung in Cage  
My Kings and Countries Ruins by the rage  
Of a rebellious Rout; who weeping saw  
Three goodly Kingdoms (drunk with fury) draw  
And sheathe their Swords (like three engaged brothe●s  
In one another's sides, ripping their Mother's  
Belly, and tearing out her bleeding heart;  
Then jealous that their Father fain would part  
Their bloody fray, and let them fight no more,  
Fell foul on Him, and slew Him at His door.  
I that have only dared to whisper Verses,  
And drop a tear (by stealth) on loyal Hearses;  
I that enraged at the Times and Rump,  
Had gnawed my Goose-quill to the very stump,  
And fling that in the Fire, no more to write,  
But to sit down poor Britain's Heraclite,  
Now sing the triumphs of the Men of War,  
The Glorious Rays of the bright Northern Star,  
Created for the nonce by Heaven to bring  
The wise men of three Nations to their King:  
MONCK! the great Monk! that syllable outshines  
Plantagenet's bright Name, or Constantine's.  
IT was at His Rising that Our Day begun,  
Be he the Morning Star to CHARLES our Sun.  
He took Rebellion rampant, by the throat,  
And made the Canting Quaker change his Note;  
His hand it was that wrote, (we saw no more)  
Exit Tyrannus over Lambert's door.   

Like to some subtle Lightning, so His Words  
Dissolved in their Scabbards Rebels Swords.  
He with success the Sovereign skill hath found  
To dress the Weapon, and to heal the Wound.  
George, and his Boys (as Spirits do, they say)  
Only by walking, scare our Foes away.   

III.  
OLd Holofernes was no sooner laid,  
Before the Idols Funeral Pomp was paid,  
(Nor shall a penny ere be paid for me;  
Let fools that trusted his true Mourners be.)  
Richard the Fourth, just peeping out of Squire,  
No fault so much, as th'old one was his Sire;  
For men believed,— though all went in his Name,  
he'd be but Tenant till the Landlord came:  
When on a sudden (all amazed) we found  
The seven years Babel tumbled to the ground;  
And he, poor heart, (thanks to his cunning Kin)  
Was soon in Querpo honest Dick again.  
Exit Protector.— What comes next? I trow,  
Let the State-Huntsmen beat again.— Soho,  
Cries Lambert, Master of the Hounds,— Here sits  
That lusty Puss, The Good Old Cause,— whos's wits  
Showed Oliver such sport; That, that (cries Vane)  
Let's put her up, and run her once again:  
She'll lead our Dogs and Followers up and down,  
Whilst we match Families, and take the Crown.  
Enter th'old Members: IT was the Month of May  
These Maggots in the Rump began to play:  
Wallingford Anglers (though they stunk) yet thought  
They would make baits, by which Fish might be caught;  
And so it proved, they soon by taxes made  
More money than the Holland Fishing Trade.   

iv  
NOw broke in Egypt's Plagues (all in a day)  
And one more worse than theirs,— We must not pray  
To be delivered:— Their scabbed folks were free  
To scratch where it did itch;— So might not we.  
That Meteor Cromwell, though he scared, gave light;  
But we were now covered with horrid night:  
Our Magistracy was (like Moses Rod)  
Turned to a Serpent by the angry God.  
Poor Citizens, when Trading would not do,  
Made brick without straw, and were blasted too:  
Struck with the botch of Taxes and Excise;  
Servants (our very dust) were turned to Lice;  
It was but turning Soldiers, and they need  
Not work at all, but on their Masters feed.  
Strange Caterpillars are our pleasant things;  
And Frogs croaked in the Chambers of our Kings:  
Black bloody veins did in the Rump prevail,  
Like the Philistims emrod's in the Tail.  
Lightning, Hall, Fire, and Thunder Egypt had,  
And England Guns, Shot, Powder, (that's as bad.)  
And that Sea-Monster Lawson (if withstood)  
Threatened to turn our Rivers into Blood.  
And (Plague of all these Plagues) all these Plagues fell  
Not on an Egypt, but our Israel.   

V  
SIck (as her heart can hold) the Nation lies,  
Filling each corner with her hideous cries:  
Sometimes Rage (like a burning Fever) hearts,  
Anon Despair brings cold and clammy Sweats;  
She cannot sleep: or if she doth she dreams  
Of Rapes, Thefts, Burn, Blood, and direful themes;  
Tosses from side to side, then by and by  
Her feet are laid there where the head did lie:  
None can come to her but bold Empirics,  
Who never meant to cure her but try tricks:  
Those very Doctors who should give her ease,  
(God help the Patient) was her worst disease.  
Th' Italian Mountebank Vane tells her sure  
Jesuits Powder will effect the Cure.  
If grief but makes her swell, Martin and Nevil  
Conclude it is a spice of the Kings-Evil.  
Bleed her again, another cries;— And Scot  
Saith he could cure her, if 'twas— you know what:  
But giddy Harrington a whimsy found,  
To make her head (like to his brains) run round:  
Her old and wise Physicians, who before  
Had well nigh cured her, came again to th' door,  
But were kept out, which made her cry the more,  
Help, help, (dear Children) Oh! some pity take  
On her who bore you! help for mercy sake!  
Oh heart! Oh head! Oh back! Oh bones! I feel  
've poisoned me with giving too much steel:  
Oh give me that for which I long and cry!  
Something that's Sovereign, or else I die.   

VI  
KInd Cheshire heard;— And like some son that stood  
Upon the Bank, strait jumped into the flood,  
Flings out his arms, & strikes some strokes to sivim  
Booth ventured first, and Middleton with him;  
Stout Mackworth, Egerton, and thousands more,  
Threw themselves in, and left the safer shore;  
Massey (that famous Diver) and bold Brown  
Forsook his Wharf,— resolving all to drown,  
Or save a sinking Kingdom:— But, O sad!  
Fearing to lose her prey, the Sea grew mad,  
Raised all her billows, and resolved her waves,  
Should quickly be the bold Adventurers graves.  
Out Marches Lambert, like an Eastern Wind,  
And with him all the mighty waters joined.  
The Loyal Swimmers bore up heads and breasts,  
Scorning to think of Life or Interests;  
They plied their Arms and Thighs, but all in vain;  
The furious Main beat them to shore again;  
At which the floating Island (looking back,  
Spying her loyal Lovers gone to wrack)  
Shrieked louder than before,— and thus she cries,  
" Can you be angry heavens, and frowning skies,  
" Thus countenance rebellious Mutineers,  
" Who, if they durst, would be about your ears?  
" That I should sink, with Justice may accord,  
" Who let my Pilot be thrown overboard;  
" Yet 'twas not I (ye righteous Heavens do know)  
" The Soldiers in me needs would have it so:  
" And those who conjured up these storms themselves,  
" And first engaged me 'mongst these Rocks and Shelves  
" Guilty of all my woe, have raised this weather,  
" Fearing to come to Land, and choosing rather  
" To sink me with themselves,— O cease to frown  
" In tears (just Heavens!) behold! myself I drown:  
" Let not these proud waves do't: Prevent my fears,  
" And let them fall together by the ears.   

VII.  
Heaven heard, and struck th'insulting army mad  
Drunk with their Cheshire Triumphs, strait they had  
New Lights appeared, and new Resolves they take,  
A Single Person once again to make.  
Who shall be he? Oh! Lambert, without rub,  
The fittest Devil to be Belzebub.  
He, the fierce Fiend, cast out o'th' House before,  
Returned, and threw the House now out of door:  
A Legion than he raised of Armed Sprights,  
Elves, Goblins, Fairs, Quakers, and new Lights,  
To be his under Devils, with this rest  
He Soul and Body (Church and State) possessed:  
Who though they filled all countries, towns, and rooms  
Yet (like that Fiend that did frequent the Tombs)  
Churches, and Sacred Grounds they haunted most,  
No Chapel was at ease from some such Ghost.  
The Priests ordained to exercise those Elves,  
Were voted Devils, and cast out themselves:  
Bible, or Koran, all's one to them,  
Religion serves but for a stratagem:  
The holy Charms these Adders did not heed,  
Churches themselves did Sanctuary need.   

VIII.  
THe Church's Patrimony and rich Store,  
Alas! was swallowed many years before:  
Bishops and Deans we said upon before,  
They were the Ribs and Sirloins of the Whore:  
Now let her Legs (the Priests go to the Pot,  
(They have the Pope's eye in them) spare them not:  
We have fat Benefices yet to eat,  
(Bell, and our Dragon-Army must have meat:)  
Let us devour her Limb-meal, great and small,  
Tithe Calves, Geese, Pigs, the Pettitoes and all:  
A Vicaridg in Sippets, though it be  
But small, will serve a squeamish Sectary.  
Though Universities we can't endure,  
There's no false Latin in their Lands (be sure.)  
Give Oxford to our Horse, and let the Foot  
Take Cambridge for their booty, and fall too't.  
Christ-Church i'll have (cries Vane;) Disbrow swops  
At Trinity; Kings is for Berry's chaps;  
Kelsey, take Corpus Christi; All-Souls, Packer;  
Grave Creed, St. john's; New College leave to Hacker;  
Fleetwood cries, Weeping Maudlin shall be mine,  
Her tears I'll drink instead of Muscadine▪  
The smaller Halls and Houses scarce are big  
Enough to make one dish for Hasilrig;  
We must be sure to stop his mouth, though wide,  
Else all our fat will be i'th' fire (they cried:  
And when we have done these, we'll not be quiet,  
Lordships and Landlords Rents shall be our diet.  
Thus talked this jolly crew, but still mine ' Host  
Lambert resolves that he will rule the Roast.   

IX.  
BUt hark! Methinks I hear old Boreas' blow;  
What mean the north-winds that they bluster so?  
More storms from that black nook? Forbear (bold Scot!)  
Let not Dunbar and Worcester be forgot:  
What? would you chaffer w'us for one Charles more  
The price of Kings is fallen, give the Trade o'er.  
And is the price of Kings and Kingdoms too,  
Of Laws, lives, oaths, souls, grown so low with you?  
Perfidious Hypocrites! Monsters of Men!  
(Cries the good Monk) we'll raise their price again  
Heaven said Amen, and breathed upon that Spark;  
That Spark (preserved alive i'th' cold and dark)  
First kindled and inflamed the British Isle,  
And turned it all to Bonfires in a while:  
He and his fuel was so small, no doubt,  
Proud Lambert thought to tread or piss them out.  
But George was wary;— His cause did require  
A Pillar of a Cloud as well as Fire:  
'Twas not his safest course to flame, but smoke;  
His enemies he will not burn but choke;  
Small Fires must not blaze out, lest by their light  
They show their weakness, and their foes invite;  
But Furnaces the stoutest Metals melt,  
(And so did he) by fire not seen, but felt;  
Darklanthorn Language, and his peep-bo-play,  
Will-E-Wispt Lambert's new Lights out o'th' way.  
George & his boys, those thousands (o strange thing)  
Of Snipes and Woodcocks took by Lowbelling.  
His few Scotch-Coal kindled with English Fire  
Made Lambert's great Nowcastle heaps expire.   

X.  
SCotland (though poor and peevish) was content  
To keep the Peace, and (O rare!) money lent;  
But yet the blessing of their Kirk was more;  
George had that too, and with this slender store  
He and his Myrmidons advance:— Kind Heaven  
Prepared a Frost to make their March more even  
Easy and safe; it may be said, That year  
Of th' Highways Heaven itself was Overseer,  
And made- November ground as hard as May;  
White as their Innocence, so was their Way:  
The Clouds came down in Featherbeds, to greet  
Him and his Army, and to kiss their feet.  
The frost and foes both came and went together,  
Both thawed away, & vanished God knows whither.  
Whole Countries crowded in to see this friend,  
Ready to cast their bodies down to mend  
His Road to Westminster; and still they shout,  
Lay hold of th' Rump, and pull the Monster out:  
A new one, or a whole one (Good my Lord)  
And to this cry the Island did accord,  
The Echo of the Irish hollow ground  
Herd England, and her language did rebound.   

XI.  
PResto- Jack Lambert, and his Sprights are gone  
To dance a Jig with's brother Oberon:  
George made him, and his Cutthroats of our lives,  
Swallow their swords as Jugglers do their Knives.  
And Carter Disborough to wish in vain,  
He now were Waggoner to Charles his Wain.  
The Conqueror is now come into th' South,  
Whose warm Air is made hot by every mouth;  
Breathing his welcome, and in spite of Scot,  
Crying— The whole Child (Sir) divide it not:  
The Rump gins to stink; Alas! (cry they)  
 raised a Devil which we cannot lay.  
I like him not— His Belly is so big,  
There's a King in't, cries furious Has●lrig,  
Let's bribe Him (they cry all) Carve him a share  
Of our stolen Venison.— Varlets forbear,  
In vain you put your Lime twigs to his Hands  
George Monck is for the King, not for his Lands,  
When fair means would not do, next foul they try,  
Vote him the City Scavenger, (they cry)  
Send him to fcowr their Streets.— Well, let it be;  
Your Rumpship wants a fcowring too, (thinks he)  
That foul house where your Worships many year  
Have laid your Tail, sure wants a Scavenger:  
I smell your Fizzle, though it make no Crack,  
You'd mount me on the Cities galled Back,  
In hope she'll cast her Rider: If I must  
Upon some Office in the Town be thrust,  
I'll be their Sword-bearer,— and to their Dagger  
I'll join my Sword:— Nay, (good Rump) do not swagger,  
The City feasts me, and as sure as Gun)  
I'll mend all England's Commons e'er I've done.   

XII.  
ANd so he did: One morning next his heart  
He goes to Westminster, and played his part;  
He vampt their boots (which Hewson ne'er could do)  
With better leather, made them g'upright too.  
The Restored Members (Cato-like, no doubt)  
Did only enter that They might go out;  
They did not mean within those Walls to dwell,  
Nor did they like their Company so well:  
Yet Heaven so blest them, that in three week's space  
They gave both Church and State a better face;  
They gave Boath, Massy, Brown, some kinder lots;  
The last years Traitors, this years Patriots:  
The Churches poor Remainder they made good,  
And washed the Nations Hands of Royal Blood;  
And that a Parliament (they did devise)  
From its own ashes (Phaenix-like) might rise;  
This done, By Act and Deed that might not fail,  
They passed a Fine, and so cut off th' Entail.   

XIII.  
LEt the Bells ring these Changes now from Bow  
Down to the Country Candlesticks below;  
Ringers, hands off; The Bells themselves will dance  
In memory of their own deliverance.  
Had not George showed his Metal, and said Nay,  
Each Sectary had born the Bell away:  
Down with them all, they're Christened (cried that Crew)  
Tie up their Clappers, and the Parsons too;  
Turn them to Guns, or sell them to the Dutch.  
Nay, hold, (quoth George) my Masters, that's too much  
You will not leap o'er Steeples thus, I hope  
I'll save the Bells, but you may take the Rope.  
Thus lay Religion panting for her life,  
Like Isaac, bound under the bloody knife;  
George held the falling Weapon, saved the Lamb:  
Let Lambert (in the Briars) be the Ram.  
So lay the Royal Virgin (as 'tis told)  
When brave S. George redeemed her life, of old.  
Oh that the Knaves that have consumed our Land,  
Had but permitted Wood enough to stand  
To be his Bonfires;— we'd burn every stem,  
And leave no more but Gallow-trees for them.   

XIV.  
MArch on, Great Hero! as thou hast begun,  
And crown our Happiness before thoust done  
We have another CHARLES to fetch from Spain,  
Be thou the GEORGE to bring him back again:  
Then shalt thou be (what was denied that Knight)  
Thy Princes, and the People's Favourite.  
There is no danger of the Winds at all,  
Unless together by the Ears they fall,  
Who shall the honour have to waft a King:  
And they who gain it, while they work shall sing.  
Methinks I see how those Triumphant Gales,  
Proud of the great Enployment, swell the Sails:  
The joyful Ship shall dance, the Sea shall laugh,  
And loyal Fish their Master's health shall quaff:  
See how the Dolphin's crowd and thrust their large  
And scaly shoulders, to assist the Barge;  
The peaceful Kingfishers are met together  
About the Decks and prophesy calm weather;  
Poor Crabs and Lobsters are gone down to creep,  
And search for Pearls and Jewels in the deep;  
And when they have the booty,— crawl before,  
And leave them for his welcome to the Shore.   

XV.  
Methinks I see how throngs of people stand  
Scarce patiented till the Vessel come to Land,  
Ready to leap in, and if need require,  
With Tears of Joy, to make the waters higher.  
But what will London do? I doubt Old Paul  
With bowing to his Sovereign will fall,  
The Royal Lions from the Tower shall roar,  
And though they see him not, yet shall adore:  
The Conduits will be ravished, and combine  
To turn their very water into Wine:  
And for the Citizens, I only pray  
They may not overjoyed all die that day:  
May we all live more loyal and more true,  
To give to Caesar and to God their due.  
we'll make his Father's Tomb with tears to swim  
And for the Son we'll shed our blood for him.  
England her penitential Song shall sing,  
And take heed how she quarrels with her King.  
If for our sins— our Prince shall be misled,  
we'll by't our nails, rather than scratch our head.   

XVI.  
ONe English George outweighs alone (by odds)  
A whole Committee of the Heathens Gods;  
Pronounce but Monck, and (it is all his due)  
He is our Mercury, Mars, and Neptune too.  
Monck (what great Xerxes could not) proved the man  
That with a word shackled the Ocean;  
He shall command Neptune himself to bring  
His Trident, and present it to our King.  
Oh do it then, great Admiral:— Away,  
Let him be here against St. George's day;  
That Charles may wear His Dieu Et Mon Droit,  
And Thou the Noble Gartered Honi Soit.  
And when thy Aged Corpse shall yield to Fate,  
God save that soul that saved our Church and State:  
There thou shalt have a glorious Crown, I know,  
Who Crown'dst our King and Kingdoms here below.  
But who shall find a Pen fit for thy glory;  
Or make Posterity believe thy Story?   
Vive St. GEORGE,   

THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Christopher Love, Late Minister of the Gospel; Acted upon TOWER-HILL, August 22. 1651.  

The Prologue.  
NEw from a slaughtered Monarches Hearse I come,  
A Mourner to a Martyred Prophet's Tomb:  
Pardon, great Charles his Ghost, my Muse had stood  
Yet three years longer, till sh'had wept a Flood;  
Too mean a Sacrifice for Royal Blood.  
But she must go, Heaven does by Thunder call  
For her Attendance at LOVE's Funeral:  
Forgive, great Sir, this Sacriledged in me,  
The tenth Tear he must have, it is his Fee;  
'Tis due to him, and yet 'tis stolen from Thee.   

The Argument.  
'Twas when the Raging Dog did rule the Skies,  
And with his scorching Face did tyrannize,  
When cruel Cromwell, Whelp of that mad Star,  
But sure more fiery than his Sire by far,  
Had dried the Northern Fife, and with his heat  
Put frozen Scotland in a Bloody Sweat:  
When he had conquered, and his furious Train  
Had chased the North-Bear, & pursued Charles Wain  
Into the English Orb; then 'twas thy fate  
(Sweet LOVE) to be a Present from our State.  
A greater Sacrifice there could not come,  
Than a Divine, to bleed his Welcome home.  
For He, and Herod think no Dish so good,  
As a John Baptists Head, served up in Blood.   

ACT. I.  
The Philistims are set in their High Court,  
And Love, like Samson's fetched to make them sport:  
Unto the Stake the smiling Prisoner's brought:  
Not to be tried, but baited, most men thought:  
Monsters, like Men, must worry him; and thus  
He fights with Beasts, like Paul at Ephesus.  
Adam's, Farneze, Huntingdon, with all the Pack  
Of foisting Hounds, were set upon his Back.  
Prideaux and Keeble stand and cry, Halono;  
IT was a full Cry, and yet it would not do.  
Oh how he foiled them! Standards by did swear,  
That he the Judge, and they the Traitors were:  
For there he proved (although he seemed a Lamb)  
Stout, like a Lion, from whose Den he came.   

ACT. II.  
It is decreed; nor shall thy Worth, dear Love,  
Resist their Vows, nor their Revenge remove.  
Though Prayers were joined to Prayers, & tears to tears,  
No Softness in their Rocky Hearts appears:  
Nor Heaven nor Earth abate their Fury can,  
But they will have thy Head, thy Head, good Man.  
Sure some She-Sectary longed, and in haste  
Must try how Presbyterian Blood did taste.  
IT is fit she have the best, and therefore thine,  
Thine must be broached, blessed Saint! 'tis Drink divine,  
No sooner was the dreadful Sentence read,  
The Prisoner strait bowed his condemned Head:  
And by that humble Posture told them all,  
It was a Head that did not fear a fall.   

ACT. III.  
And now I wish the fatal Stroke were given;  
I'm sure our Martyr longs to be in Heaven,  
AndHeav'n to have him there: one moment's blow  
Makes him triumphant; but here comes his woe,  
His Enemies will grant a Month's Suspense,  
If't be for the nonce to keep him thence:)  
And that he may tread in his Saviour's ways,  
He shall be tempted too, his forty days:  
And with such baits too, Cast thyself but down,  
Fall, and but worship, and your Life's your own.  
Thus cried his Enemies; oh 'twas their pride,  
To wound his Body, and his Soul beside.  
One Plot  more, when all their own do fail  
If Devils can't, Disciples may prevail.  
Let's tempt him by his Friends, make Peter cry,  
Good Master, Spare thyself, and do not die.  
One Friend entreats, a second weeps, a third  
Cries, Your Petition wants the other word:  
I'll write it for you, saith a fourth; Your Life,  
Your Life, Sir, cries a fifth, Pity your Wife,  
And the Babe in her: Thus this Diamonds cut  
By Diamonds only, and to terror put.  
Methinks I hear him still, You wound my heart;  
Good Friends, forbear; for every word's a Dart:  
IT is cruel pity, thus I do profess,  
You'd love me more, if you did love me less:  
Friends, Children, Wife, Life, all are dear, I know  
But all's too dear, if I should buy them so.  
Thus, like a rock that routs the waves, he stands,  
And snaps asunder, Sampson-like, these bands.   

ACT. IU.  
The Day is come, the Prisoner longs to go,  
And chides the lingering Sun for tarrying so:  
Which blushing seems to answer from the Sky,  
That it was loath to see a Martyr die.  
Methinks I heard beheaded Saints above  
Call to each other, Sirs, Make room for LOVE.  
Who when he came to tread the fatal Stage,  
(Which proved his Glory, and his Enemy's rage)  
His Blood ne'er run t'his heart, Christ's Blood was there  
Reviving, it, his own was all to spare:  
Which rising in his Cheeks, did seem to say,  
Is this the Blood you thirst for? Take't, I pray.  
Spectators in his Looks such Life did see,  
That they appeared more like to die than he.  
But oh his Speech! methinks I hear it still;  
It ravished Friends, and did his Enemies kill:  
His keener Words did their sharp Axe exceed;  
That made his head, but he their hearts, to bleed:  
Which he concluded with so●t Prayer, and so  
The Lamb lay down, and took the Butcher's blow:  
His Soul makes Heaven shine brighter by a Star,  
And now we're sure there's one Saint Christopher.   

ACT. V.  
LOVE lies a bleeding, and the World shall see  
Heaven act a part in this black Tragedy.  
The Sun no sooner spied the Head o'th' floor,  
But he pulled in his own, and looked no more.  
The Clouds, which scattered, and in colours were,  
Met altogether, and in black appear:  
Light'ning, which filled the Air with blazing light,  
Did serve for Torches at that dismal Night:  
In which, and all next day, for many hours,  
Heaven groaned in Thunder, & did weep in Showers.  
Nor do I wonder, that God thundered so,  
When's Boanerges murdered lay below:  
The High Court trembled, Prideaux, Bradshaw, Keeble,  
And all the guilty Rout, looked pale and feeble.  
Timorous Jenkins, and coldhearted Drake,  
Hold out, you need no base Petitions make:  
Your Enemies thus Thunderstruck, no doubt,  
Will be beholding to you to go out.  
B●t if you will recant, now thundering Heaven  
Such Approbation to Love's cause hath given,  
I'll add but this; Your Consciences perhaps,  
Ere long, shall feel far greater Thunderclaps.   

The Epilogue.  
But stay, my Muse grows fearful too, and must  
Beg that these Lines be buried with thy Dust:  
Shelter, blessed Love, this verse within thy Shroud,  
For none but Heaven dares take thy part aloud.  
The Author begs this, lest, if it be known.  
Whilst he bewails thy Head, he lose his own.   
R. W.   

UPON The much to be Lamented DEATH OF THE Reverend Mr. Vines.  

ARt thou gone too (thou great & gallant mind)  
And must such Sneaks as I be left behind?  
If thus our Horsemen and Commanders die,  
What can the Infantry do then but fly?  
Oh Divine Vines! tell us, why wouldst thou go,  
Unless thou couldst have left thy Parts below?  
If there's a Metempsuchosis indeed,  
Tell us where we may find thee at our need?  
Who hath thy Memory? thy Brain, thy Heart?  
Whom didst thou leave thy Tongue? (for every part  
Of thee can make a Man.) What if we find  
(As I'll not swear this Age won't change her mind)  
Prelacy (though her Lands are sold) revive?  
Or Independency (who hopes to thrive,  
No where suits Trump) should dare dispute at length?  
Where hast thou left thy Presbyterian Strength,  
With which thou got'st the Game in th' Isle of Wight,  
Where the King cried that Vines was in the right?  
When Essex died (the Honour of our Nation)  
Thou gav'st him a new life in thy Oration.  
But when great Fairfax to his Fate shall yield,  
Whom hast thou left— to fetch from Naseby-field  
Th' Immortal Turf, and dress it with a Story,  
That shall perpetuate his name and glory?  
Where's thy rich Fancy (man?) To whom (beneath)  
Didst thou thy lofty and high strain bequeath?  
Tell us for thy own sake; for none but he  
That hath thy Wit, can write thy Elegy.  
Till he be found, let this suffice, which I  
Leave on thy Stone:— Here lies the Ministry.  
R. W.    

TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Jeremy Whitaker, Powerful in Prayer and Preaching, Pious in Life, Patient in Sickness, etc.  

NAy, now forbear; for pity sake give o'er,  
You that would make the Clergy none, or poor:  
We are made miserable enough this year,  
That we have lost our Reverend Whitaker;  
Loss above Deaus and Chapters! had but he  
Lived still and preached: Ziba take all (for me.)  
Nay I believe had sacrilegious hands  
Fingered our poor remains of Tithes and Lands,  
Whilst he survived they had but prayed in vain,  
Whitaker would have prayed them back again,  
As Luther did a young man's Soul repeal,  
Given to the Devil under Hand and Seal,  
A Chariot and an Horseman we have lost,  
In whose each single Prayer encamped an Host.  
How have I heard him on some solemn Day,  
When doubtful War could make all London pray)  
Mount up to Heaven with armed cries and tears,  
And rout, as far as York, the Cavaliers!  
Have you not seen an early-rising Lark  
Spring from her Turf, making the Sun her mark,  
Shooting herself aloft, yet higher, higher,  
Till she had sung herself into Heaven's Choir?  
Thus would he rise in Prayer, and in a trice  
His Soul become a Bird of Paradise:  
And if our faint Devotions Prayers be,  
What can we call his less than Ecstasy?   

On his Preaching.  
If with the Almighty he prevailed so,  
Wonder not that he Wonders wrought below:  
The Son of Consolation and of Thunder  
Met both in him, in others are asunder.  
He was (like Luke) Physician of both kinds,  
Wrought Cures upon men's Bodies & their Minds,  
The Falling-sickness of Apostasy,  
Dropsy of Drunkenness, Pride's Tympany,  
The Megrim of Opinions, new or old,  
Palsy of Unbelief, Charity's cold,  
Lust's burning Fever, Angers Calenture,  
The Colic in the Conscience he could cure:  
Set the souls broken bones; by holy Art  
He hath dissolved the Stone in many a Heart,  
Harder than that he died of— O come in,  
Ye multitudes whom he hath healed of sin,  
And thereby made his Debtors— Pay him now  
Some of those tears which he laid out for you;  
Interest-tears, I mean; for should you all  
Weep over him both Use and Principal,  
'Twould wash away the Stone (which covers him)  
And make his Coffin (like an Ark) to swim.  
Now wipe thine eyes (my Muse) & stop thy Verse  
(Thy Ink can only serve to black his Hearse,)  
Yet (stay) i'll drop one Tear, sigh one sigh more,  
'Tis this, although my Poetry be poor  
O what a mighty Prophet should I be,  
Had this Elijah's Mantle fallen to me!  
Oh might I live his Life! I'd be content  
His sore Diseases too should me torment:  
And if his Patience could mine become,  
I would not be afraid of Martyrdom.  
R. W.    

UPON THE DEATH OF So many Reverend Ministers of late.  
STill we do find, Black cloth wears out the first;  
And fruits that are the choicest keep the worst.  
Such men? So many? and they die so fast?  
They're precious (death) on do not make such waste.  
Scarce have we dried our eyes for loss of one,  
But in comes tidings that another's gone.  
Oh that I had my former Tears again,  
(All but those few laid out upon my sin,)  
Had I an Helicon in either Eye,  
I have occasion now to verse them dry.  
Triumph (licentious Age) lift up thy Song,  
Presbytery shan't trouble you ere long;  
Those that tormented you before your day,  
Are now apace removing out o'th' way.  
Yea, rather tremble (England) stand aghast,  
To see thy glorious Lamps go out so fast;  
When Death (like Samson) thus lays hold upon  
The Pillars of the Church,— The Building's gone.  
When we do see so many Stars to fall,  
Surely, it bodes the World's great Funeral.  
London, look too't, and think what Heaven is doing  
Thy Flames are coming when thy Lots are going,  
Well may we all fear God intendeth Wars,  
When he commands home his Ambassadors.  
That Venerable Synod, which of late  
Was made the Object of men's Scorn and Hate,  
(For want of Copes and Mitres, not of Graces)  
Are now called up (with Moses) and their Faces  
When they return, shall shine; God sees it fit,  
Such an Assembly should in Glory sit.  
The learned Twisse went first, (it was his right)  
Then holy Palmer, Borroughs, Love, Gouge, White,  
Hill, Whitaker, grave Gataker, and Strong,  
Pern, Marshal, Robinson, all gone along.  
I have not named them half: their only strife  
Hath been (of late) who should first part with Life.  
Those few who yet survive, sick of this Age,  
Long to have done their parts, and leave the Stage.  
Our English Luther, Vines, (whose Death I weep)  
Stole away (and said nothing) in a Sleep:  
Sweet (like a Swan) he preached that day he went,  
And for his Cordial took a Sacrament:  
Had it but been suspected— he would die,  
His People sure had stopped him with their Cry.  
My bleareyed Muse ('tis tears have made her so)  
Must wash his Marble too, before she go.   

AN ELEGY UPON THE Earl of Essex HIS FUNERAL.  

ANd are there all the Rites that must be done  
Thrice Noble ESSEX, England's Champion?  
Some Men, some Walls, some Horses put in black  
With the Throng scrambling for Sweetmeats and Sack;  
A gaudy Herald, and a Velvet Hearse,  
A tattared Anagram with grievous Verse,  
And a sad Sermon to conclude withal,  
Shall this be styled great ESSEX's ●●neral?  
Niggardly Nation, be ashamed of th'odds,  
Less Valour among Heathen made men gods:  
Should such a General have died in Rome,  
He must have had an Altar, not a Tomb;  
And there, in stead of youthful Elegies,  
Grave Senators had offered Sacrifice  
To Divine Devereux: O  a Vote,  
(Ye Lords and Commons, ye are boun●●o do't)  
A Vote, that who is seen to smile this year,  
A Vote, that who so brings not in a Tear,  
Shall be adjudged Malignant: It were wise  
T'erect an Office in the People's eyes,  
For issuing forth a constant sum of Tears,  
There's no way else to pay him his Arrears:  
And when  drained this Age's eyes quite dry,  
Let him be wept the next in History;  
Which if Posterity shall dare to doubt,  
Then Gloucester's whispering Walls shall speak him out:  
And so his Funeral shall not be done,  
Till he returnith ' Resurrection.    

To the Father of a very virtuous Virgin, Deceased; who desired an obscure Person to make an Elegy, etc.  

SIr, Be advised; She's not your Daughter now,  
But a crowned Saint in heavens great Court, & you  
Must take heed what you offer to her Shrine;  
You'll be profane, if that be not Divine.  
Sternhold (who killed the Psalms, and David too  
In Meeter and good meaning) did not do  
More, violence to Heaven, than you to her.  
If, whilst you think't a kindness, you shall blur  
Her Honour with my Ink: 'tis a disgrace  
To set black Spots upon a glorious Face.  
Disdain will burst her Coffin (sure) to have  
Such dirty Feet as mine stand on her Grave.  
Besides, 'tis niggardly to weep in Verse,  
Tears without measure best become her Hearse,  
The talking Book is shallow, still we see  
Great Sorrows, like deep Rivers, silent be.  
Were I Apollo's Priest indeed, and fit  
To send a Poem up in flames of Wit,  
Yet i'm but one; Sir, to her Altar's due  
Whole Hecatombs of Verse, and Poets too.  
Go search St. Pauls-Church-yard, employ choice eyes  
To scan all Epitaphs and Elegies;  
All the rich Fancies, sacred Raptures, all  
The Pearly drops which ever yet did fall  
On spotless Virgins Tombs: then make your claim  
Print and devote them to your Daughter's name.  
Those vast Hyperboles, those lofty Notes,  
Which cracked the Muse's Voices, rend their throats  
Offended scrup'lous Readers, made them think  
Poetry only strong Lines, and strong Drink,  
Allayed by her merit, soon will be  
Reduced to sober Truth, and Modesty,  
But stay, this counsel is but simple stuff,  
(England's Divine) Reynolds hath done enough:  
His Sermon is her Monument in print,  
And hath more Honour than all Poems in't.  
That doth not only speak her Saint, and more,  
Can make him one too, who but reads it o'er.  
Reynolds records her Saint, and you may hope  
That's more than canonising by a Pope.    

IN MEMORY Of Mris E. T. Who died April 7. 1659.  

IT was the Spring, and Flowers were in contest,  
Whose smells should first reach Heaven, and please it best;  
Then did Eliza's sweetness so surpass  
All Rival Virgins, that she sent for was.  
'Twas April when she died; no Month so fit  
For Heaven to be a mourner in, as it.  
'Twas Easter too; that time did Death devise  
Best for this Lamb to be a Sacrifice.  
It was the Spring; The way 'twixt Heaven & Earth  
Was sweetened for her passage, by the Birth  
Of early Flowers, which burst their Mother's womb,  
Resolyed to live and die upon her Tomb.  
It was the Spring; Between the Earth and Sky,  
To please her Soul as it was passing by,  
Birds filled the Air with Anthems, every nest  
Was on the Wing, to chant her to her Rest:  
Not a Pen-feathered Lark, who ne'er tried Wing,  
Nor Throat; but ventured then to fly, and sing:  
Following the Saint towards Heaven, whose entrance there  
Dampt them, and changed their Notes. Then pensive Air  
Dissolved to tears, which spoiled the feathered Train  
And sunk them to their nests with grief again.  
Mean time, me thought, I saw at heavens fair Gate  
The glorious Virgins meet, and kiss their Mate.  
They stood a while her Beauty to admire  
Then led her to her place in their own Choir:  
Which seemed to be defective, until she  
Added her Sweetness to their Harmony.  
As Medals scattered when some Prince goes by,  
So lay the Stars that night about the Sky.  
The Milky Way too, (since she passed it o'er)  
Methinks looks whiter than it was before.    

AN EPITAPH Upon E. T.  

REader, didst thou but know what sacred Dust  
Thou treadest upon, thou'dst judge thyself unjust  
Shouldst thou neglect a shower of tears to pay,  
To wash the Sin of thy own Feet away.  
That Actor in the Play, who looking down  
When he should cry, O Heaven,— was thought a Clown,  
And guilty of a Soloecism— might have  
Applause for such an Action o'er this Grave.  
Here lies a piece of Heaven, and Heaven one day  
Will send the best in Heaven to fetched away.  
Truth is, this Lovely Virgin from her Birth  
Became a constant strife 'twixt Heaven and Earth:  
Both claimed her, pleaded for her; either cried,  
The Child is mine; at length they did divide:  
Heaven took her Soul; The Earth her Corpse did seize,  
Yet not in Fee, she only holds by Lease;  
With this Proviso— when the Judge shall call,  
Earth shall give up her share, and Heaven have all    

UPON The Learned Works of the Reverend DIVINE Ed. Reynolds, D. D.  

REader, who e'er thou art, here thou mayst find  
Within these Works, a rare, rich, glorious mind  
O Golden Precepts, which, alike, do show  
What's thy D stemper how to cure it too:  
Do pains oppress thy Body? Sorrow Mind?  
Draw near to God, Prayer will acceptance find;  
And then no doubt, he'll grant, thy Body's Grief  
May bring thy sinking soul some small Relief:  
Do Passions over-top thy will? beware,  
Virtue consists not in so high a Sphere:  
If thou the Golden Medium will't find,  
Eat thou too high, and too too low a mind.  
Pleasures are gilded Nothings, which like bubbles fly,  
Swollen big with Emptiness so burst and die.  
Do darkest times of ignorance draw near?  
The rather view these weighty Lines: nor fear,  
Nor wonder much at this resplendent Light:  
Diamonds shine brightest in the darkest night.  
The Merchantman sold all he had, to buy  
The rich, rare, Gospel Jewel: O then why  
Art thou so backward, since that thou mayst make  
This Gem thine own, yea, at a cheaper rate?  
The foolish Virgins, when their Lord of Light  
Past by, their lights were out: So that eternal night  
Was their reward, and just, for they that deem  
Pains cost of greater worth, shall ne'er be seen  
Within his Courts, who is great, good, and just.  
Is Folly thus repaid? Reader, we must  
Look that it ne'er be said of thee or I,  
That our Neglest should cause our light to die.  
R. W.   

Another.  
LOok wishly (friend) thou seldom seest such men  
Heaven drops such Jewels down but now and then,  
One in an Age, or Nation: oh 'tis rare,  
Two Reynoldses should fall to England's share!  
Can Rome but show one such, and this were He,  
His Picture could not scape Idolatry:  
Whom Papists (not with Superstitious Fire)  
Would dare t' adore, we justly may admire.  
R. W.   

Aliud.  
LEarning, whose Forces did dispersed lie  
(Of late alarmed by the Enemy)  
Calling a Council, did resolve at length▪  
To choose one General over all her strength:  
Divinity (who had the choice) did Name  
Reynolds? All Voices centred in the same:  
Now here he stands and heads such Books as bear  
Truth in their Van, and Triumph in their Rear.  
R. W.    

AN EPITAPH For a Godly Man's Tomb.  

HEre lies a piece of Christ, a Star in Dust;  
A Vein of Gold, a Chinned Dish that must  
Be used in Heaven, when God shall Feast the Just.    

AN EPITAPH For a Wicked Man's Tomb.  

HEre lies the Carcase of a cursed Sinner,  
Doomed to be Roasted, for the Devil's Dinner.    

A Letter to a Friend.  
Generous Sir,  
ON Saturdy last (the Day and Weather being as sad and dumpish as old Saturn himself) whilst I was in my Study (my Books and myself musty and melancholy) and my provisions for the next Day as poor as ever were made by Country Curate, sometimes scratching that which goes for my Head, and then biting my Nails for offending my Noddle; In comes your Friendly Letter (the welcomest Quartermaster that ever came to my House) to take up Quarters for that gallant Man's Works (and if ever Good Works merited, they do) Doctor Reynolds. Sir, They no sooner entered my Study— but all my Books seemed to disappear, as the Stars do at the rising of the Sun: You cannot imagine what fear, shame, confusion, and envy, my poor Shelves discovered; Some poor Authors stood gasping— others tumbled down, and others burst their Bindings— resolving to break Prison, rather than stand before such a Judge of Learning. Those few Fathers (which I had) seemed to meet in a Council, what they should do, whether stay or departed. Old Origen began, but he was so full of Allegories, and whimsies, they could not tell what to say to him; but sure he and they all were troubled, for fear (good men) that they should now be ejected in their old Age. Just in thought that he should again be a Martyr, and burnt to light Tobacco. Tertullian began to make Apologies; and Austin himself fell to his Confessions and Retractions. As for Hierom, as good a Scholar as he was, he wished himself again on his Pilgrimage: and my poor Countryman Bede got into a corner, and fell to his Beeds. On another shelf (for I have not many) my Schoolmen looked like Schoolboys, and stood with their strings untied, ready untrussed for Correction. Aquinas himself wished he had not such sums to reckon for; and all the Popish Authors I had fell to crossing themselves. But what a case (if my stout Folioes and old Authors fainted thus) do you think my Infantry— my. Modern men, my Quarto and Octavo Striplings were in? Yea, some of our own English (men of many Editions, & worthy to be bound and gilded) gave back, and thrust one another: Dod and Clever were both silenced; Doctor Prestons' All-sufficiency pleaded Insufficiency— Thomas Goodwin pulled his Caps in his Eyes, and became a Child of Light in Darkness— As for John Goodwin, he logot for a General Redemption of them all; but his Subsizer, poor Pierce, was afraid. at the Doctors coming in, that he and his corrected Copy, should be again sent to the House of Correction. As for my Pamphlets and trash, they crowded together; and having no manner of Cover for themselves, many of them wished Giles Calvert hanged for Printing them, and themselves burned out of the way. Thus Sir, It was with my Study: But for myself, oh how I was revived and ravished! No sooner did that Book, big with Christ, enter and salute me (pardon the allusion) but my heart, like John in his Mother's belly, leaped for joy. No sooner did open, and taste the Honey, but mine Eyes were enlightened, and I mended in an instant. The Vanity of the Creature made me serious, the Sinfulness of Sin humbled me, the Life of Christ quickened me; the 110 Psalms made me sing, the Lords Supper feasted me,— the Prophet Hosea inspired me, and the Passions exceedingly affected me. What shall I say, or do? I cannot hold, but must fall out of trotting heavy Prose into an amble of Rhyming.—  

From a kind Hand there came t' enrich a place  
In my poor Study,— the rare Works and Face  
Of Learned Reverend Reynolds— I receive  
The Book with joy— but no Gift (by your leave)  
And for the Book, and for myself, I vow  
I ne'er had Piece could make me Preach till now:  
I'll pay for't (Sir) And— (which I ne'er shall do)  
When I can write such— you shall print them too.  
Mean time I prophesy, this Volume will  
Make both your Rose and Crown to flourish still.   
Sir, accept and pardon this trash,— next Term I shall be in London, and then personally prove what I now set my Hand to— (viz.) That I am  
Yours most Cordially, R. W.   

Alas poor Scholar, Wither wilt thou go? OR Strange Alterations which at this time be, There's many did think they never should see.  

IN a Melancholy Study,  
None but myself,  
Methought my Muse grew muddy;  
After seven years Reading,  
And costly breeding,  
I felt, but could find no pelf:  
Into Learned Rags  
I've rend my Plush and Satin,  
And now am fit to beg  
In Hebrew, Greek, and Latin;  
In stead of Aristotle,  
Would I had got a Patten.  
Alas poor Scholar! whither wilt thou go?  
Cambridge now I must leave thee,  
And follow Fate,  
College hopes do deceive me!  
I oft expected  
To have been elected,  
But Desert is reprobate.  
Masters of Colleges  
Have no common Graces,  
And they that have Fellowships  
Have but common Places,  
And those that Scholars are  
They must have handsome faces:  
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?   

I have bowed, I have bended,  
And all in hope  
One day to be befriended.  
I have preached, I have printed  
What e'er I hinted,  
To please our English Pope:  
I worshipped towards the East,  
But the Sun doth now forsake me?  
I find that I am falling,  
The Northern winds do shake me:  
Would I had been upright,  
For Bowing now will break me:  
At great Preferment I aimed,  
Witness my Silk;  
But now my hopes are maimed:  
I looked lately  
To live most stately,  
And have a Dairy of Bell-ropes Milk;  
But now alas,  
Myself I must not flatter,  
Bigamy of Steeples  
Is a laughing matter;  
Each man must have but one,  
And Curates will grow fatter.  
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?   

Into some Country Village  
Now I must go,  
Where neither Tithe nor Tillage  
The greedy Patron  
And parched Matron  
Swear to the Church they own:  
Yet if I can Preach,  
And pray too on a sudden,  
And confure the Pope  
At adventure, without studying,  
Then ten pounds a year,  
Besides a Sunday Pudding.  
All the Arts I have skill in,  
Divine and Humane,  
Yet all's not worth a Shilling;  
When the Women hear me,  
They do but jeer me,  
And say, I am profane:  
Once, I remember,  
I preached with a Weaver,  
I quoted Austin.  
He quoted Dod and Clever;  
I nothing got,  
He got a Cloak and Beaver:  
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?   

Ships, Ships, Ships, I discover,  
Crossing the Main;  
Shall I in, and go over,  
Turn Jew, or Atheist,  
Turk, or Papist,  
To Geneua, or Amsterdam?  
Bishoprics are void  
In Scotland, shall I thither?  
Or follow Windebank  
And Finch, to see if either  
Do want a Priest to shrive them?  
O no, 'tis blust'ring weather.  
Alas poor Scholar, whither wilt thou go?  
Ho, ho, ho, I have hit it,  
Peace goodman Fool;  
Thou hast a Trade will fit it;  
Draw thy Indenture,  
Be bound at adventure  
An Apprentice to a Free-School;  
There thou mayst command  
By William Lilies Charter;  
There thou mayst whip, strip,  
And hang, and draw, and quarter,  
And commit to the Red Rod  
Both Will, and Tom, and Arthur.  
l, l, 'tis thither, thither will I go.  
R. W.    

THE Norfolk and Wisbich. COCKFIGHT.  By R. W. 

GO you tame Gallants, you that have a Name,  
And would accounted be Cocks of the Game;  
That have brave Spurs to show for't, and can crow,  
And count all Dunghil-breed, that cannot show  
Suc● painted plumes as yours; which think't not vice  
With Cock-like lust to tread your Cockatrice;  
Though Peacocks, Weathercocks, Woodcocks you be,  
If y'are not Fight Cocks, y'are not for me.  
I of two feathered Combatants will write;  
And he that means to th'life to express their Fight,  
M … ke his Ink the blood which they did spill,  
An … their dying Wings must take his quill.  
No so … were the doubtful People set,  
The Match made up, and all that would had bet;  
But strait the skilful Judges of the Play  
Brought forth their sharp-heeled Warriors; & they  
Were both in Linen Bags, as if 'twere meet  
Before they died, to have their Winding-sheet.  
Into the Pit they're brought, and being there  
Upon the Stage, the Norfolk Chanticleer  
Looks stoutly at his ne'r-before-seen Foe,  
And like a Challenger began to crow,  
And clap his Wings, as if he would display  
His Warlike colours, which were black and grey.  
Mean time the wary Wisbich walks and breathes  
His active Body, and in fury wreaths  
His comely Crest; and often looking down,  
He beats his angry Beak upon the ground.  
This done, they meet, not like that coward Breed  
Of Aesope's; these can better fight then feed:  
They scorn the Dunghill; 'tis their only p●ize  
To dig for Pearls within each others Eyes.  
They fought so nimbly, that 'twas hard to know,  
To th' skilful, whether they did fight or no;  
If that the blood which died the fatal floor,  
Had not born witness of't. Yet fought they more,  
As if each wound were but a Spur to prick  
Their fury forward. Lightnings not more quick  
Or red, then were their Eyes: 'Twas hard to know  
Whether 'twas blood, or anger made them so.  
I'm sure they had been out, had they not stood  
More safe, being walled in each others blood.  
Thus they vied blows; but yet, alas, at length,  
Although their courage were full tried, theirstrength  
And blood began to ebb. You that have seen  
A Watery Combat on the Sea, between  
Two angry-roaring-boiling Billows, how  
They march, and meet, and dash their curled brow;  
Swelling like graves, as though they did intent  
T'intomb each other, ere the quarrel end;  
But when the wind is down, and blustering weather,  
They are made friends, & sweetly run together;  
May think these Champions such: their blood grows low  
And they which leaped but now, now scarce can go  
For having left th' advantage of the Heel,  
Drunk with each others blood, they only reel;  
And yet they would fain fight: they came so near,  
Methought they meant into each others ear  
To whisper wounds; and when they could not rise  
They lay and looked blows int' each others eyes.  
But now the Tragic part! After this fit,  
When Norfolk Cock had got the best of it,  
And Wisbich lay a dying, so that none,  
Though sober, but might venture seven to one,  
Contracting, like a dying Taper, all  
His strength, intending with the blow to fall,  
He struggles up, and having taken wind,  
Ventures a blow, and strikes the other blind.  
And now poor Norfolk, having lost his Eyes,  
Fights guided only by Antipathies:  
With him, alas! the Proverb is not true,  
The blows his Eyes ne'er saw, his heart must rue.  
At last, by chance, he stumbling on his Foe,  
Not having any strength to give a blow,  
He falls upon him with his wounded Head,  
And makes his Conqueror's wings his Featherbed.  
His friends ran in, and being very chary,  
Sent in all haste to call a Apothecary:  
But all in vain, his body did so blister,  
That 'twas not capable of any Clyster.  
Physic's in vain, and 'twill not him restore;  
Alas poor Cock, he was let blood before  
Then finding himself weak, opening his Bill,  
He calls a Scrivener, and thus makes his Will;  
Imp. First of all, let never be forgot,  
My Body freely I bequeath to th' Pot,  
Decently to be boiled; and for its Tomb,  
Let it be buried in some hungry Womb,  
Item, For Executors I'll have none,  
But he that on my side laid seven to one;  
And, like a Gentleman that he may live,  
To him, and to his Heirs, my Comb I give,  
Together with my Brains, that all may know,  
That oftentimes his Brains did use to crow.  
Item, For Comfort of those Weaker ones  
Whose wives complain of, let them have my Stones  
For Ladies that are light, it is my Will,  
My Feathers make a Fan. And for my Bill;  
I'll give a Tailor: But i'faith 'tis so short,  
I am afraid, he'll rather curse me sored.  
And for that worthy Doctor's sake, who meant  
To give me a Clyster, let my Rump be sent.  
Lastly, because I find myself decay,  
I yield, and give to Wisbich Cock the day.  
R. W.    

UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Esq; Who died four Days before the LORD PROTECTOR.  

NOw whilst Whitehall wears black, and men do fear  
'Tis Treason any Colour else to wear;  
Whilst Mourners, like a flock of Crows, resort  
To the great Lion's Carcase, at the Court;  
Whilst the sad Members of the T'other House  
(That Mountain which last year brought forth a Mouse)  
Lament his Fall, who Madamed all their Wives,  
And Thurloe wishes he had nine Lives;  
Whilst some lament, he died without an Axe,  
And fear the Funeral will cost Tax;  
Whilst cunning Scotland counterfeits a Groan,  
And Ireland cudgelled into her A hone;  
Whilst England puts her Finger in her Eye,  
And Welshmen use their Leeks to make them cry;  
Whilst Grief doth chime All-in, and every Tribe  
Eycleped, Mayor and Aldermen, subscribe  
(Or make their Marks at least) how full of Sadness  
That Oliver is dead, and eke of gladness  
That Richard reigns! though the Slaves lie, I fear,  
For their old Gowns are lined with Cavalier:  
Whilst the sad Poetasters of the times  
Plaster the Hearse with miserable Rhymes,  
And I, poor Man, might mend my Fortune too,  
As sure as ever Lord Hewson mended Shoo,  
If I could baste my Muse, and make her go:  
I, by that great Ghosts leave, am well content  
To wait upon a meaner Monument;  
Yet fit to stand by this, if not above,  
As having, though less Pomp, yet no less Love;  
'Tis Dennis Bond, that true bred English Squire,  
Whose worth, if my rude Fancy should aspire  
To reach the Sinews; just, pious, valiant wise,  
Able for Counsel or for Enterprise;  
Fit to set Cato Copies, if alive,  
Able to make a Bankrupt Nation thrive;  
Th' Alchemy of whose single Judgement could  
Convert a Leaden Council into Gold.  
Atlas of State! oh! if King Charles that's gone,  
In stead of Digby and old Cottington,  
Had had one Dennis; he had stood till now,  
And kept the Crown fast on his Royal Brow.  
Cromwell could not outlive him; so our State  
In one week lost their Pilot, and his Mate:  
And though he died in's Bed, 'tis not denied;  
Yet was his Head struck off when Dennis died.  
Adieu, brave Bond! My aged Muse shall burn  
Her withered Laurel at thy scared Urn.  
Live thine own Monument, and scorn a Stone;  
Marbles themselves have flaws, thy Name has none  
That plat of Earth which grasps thee in her womb,  
Proud of such Treasure, swells into a Tomb.  
When the next Parliament together come,  
And miss their Western Patriot from his room,  
Despairing that their Meeting will not speed,  
Grief will dissolve them, no Protector need.   
R. W.   

Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.  

ENter, and see this Tomb (Sirs) do not fear  
No Spirits, but of Wine, will frightyou here:  
Weep o'er this Tomb, your Sorrows here may have  
Wine for their sweet Companions in the Grave.  
A dozen Shakespears here interred do lie;  
Two dozen Jonson's full of Poetry.  
Did not the Mother Hogshead, from whose womb  
These Babes sprang forth, burst when she saw this Tomb,  
And swell with grief? Did not the Butler sink,  
To see himself turn Sexton to his Drink?  
'Twere commendable Sacrilege, no doubt,  
Can I come at your Grave, to steal you out:  
However, from this thy anxious Grave I will  
Some virtuous Ashes take, wherewith I'll fill  
The Glass I preach by; for I must be just,  
There lies Divinity within thy Dust.  
Unhappy Grape, could not one pressing do,  
But now alive you must be buried too?  
Sleep on, but scorn to die, immortal Liquer:  
The burying of thee thus will make thee quicker:  
Mean while thy Friend's prayloud, that thou mayst have  
A speedy Resurrection from the Grave,    

AN ESSAY Upon the late VICTORY obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York, Against the DUTCH, upon June 3. 1665.  By the Author of Iter Boreale. 

GOUT! I conjure thee by the powerful Names  
Of CHARLES and JAMES, and their victorious Fames,  
On this great Day set all thy Prisoners free,  
(Triumphs command a Goal-Delivery)  
Set them all free, leave not a limping Toe  
From my Lord Chancellors to mine below;  
Unless thou giv'st leave this day to dance,  
thou'rt not th' old Loyal Gout, but comest from France.  
'Tis done, my grief obeys the Sovereign Charms,  
I feel a Bonfire in my joints, which warms  
And thaws the frozen jelly; I am grown  
Twenty years younger; Victory hath done  
What puzzled Physic: Give the Dutch a Rout,  
Probatum est, 'twill cure an English Gout.   

Come then, put nimble Socks upon my Feet,  
They shall be Skippers to our Royal Fleet,  
Which now returns in dances on our Seas,  
A Conqueror above Hyperboles.  
A Sea which with Bucephalus doth scorn  
Less than an Alexander should be born  
On her proud Back; but to a Loyal Rein  
Yields foaming Mouth, & bends her cursed Main:  
And conscious that she is too straight a Stage  
For Charles to act on, swelled with Loyal Rage,  
Urgeth the Belgic and the  shore  
To yield more room, Her Master must have more,  
Ingrateful Neighbours! 'twas our kinder Isle,  
With Her own Blood, made Your Geneva Style  
Writ insmall Print [Poor States and sore Perplexed:]  
Swell to the [HIGH AND MIGHTY LORDS] in text;  
And can ye be such Snakes to sting that Breast  
Which in your Winter gave you Warmth & Rest?  
Poor Flemish Frogs, if Your Ambition thirst  
To swell to English Greatness, You will burst.  
Can you believe Our Royal Head would fail  
To Nod those down, who fell before our Tail?  
Or could Your Amsterdam by her commands,  
Make London carry Coals to warm her Hands?  
A bold attempt! Pray practise it no more;  
We saved our Coals, yet gave you fire good store  
It is enough; The righteous Heavens have now  
Judged the Grand Quarrel betwixt us and you.  
The Sentence is— The Surface must be ours,  
But for the bottom of the Sea 'tis yours:  
Thither your Opdam with some thousands, are  
Gone down to take possession of your share.   

Methinks I here great Triton sound a Call,  
And through th' affrighted Ocean summon all  
His scaly Regiments, to come and take  
Part of that Feast which Charles their King doth make;  
Where they may glut Revenge, quit the old score,  
And feed on those who fed on them before;  
Whom when they have digested, who can find  
Whether they're fish, or flesh, or what's their kind?  
Van-Cod, Vanling, Van-Herring, will be cried  
About their Streets; All Fish, so Dutchified.  
The States may find their Capers in their Dish,  
And meet their Admirals in buttered Fish.  
Thus they'll imbody and increase their Crew;  
A cunning way to make each Dutchman two.  
And on themselves they now must feed or fast;  
Their Herring Trade is brought unto its Last.   

To the KING.  
GReat Sir, Beloved of God and Man, admit  
My Loyal zeal to run before my Wit.  
This is my Pens miscarriage, not a Birth;  
Her haste hath made her bring blind Puppies forth,  
My aims in this attempt, are to provoke,  
And kindle flames more Noble by my smoke;  
My wisp of straw may set great Wood on Fire,  
And my weak Breath Your Organs may inspire.  
Amongst those Flags  taken from the Dutch,  
Command your Denham to hang up his Crutch,  
He is a man both of his Hands and Feet,  
And with great numbers can your Navy meet,  
His quicker Eye Your Conquest can survey;  
His Hand, York's Temples Crown with flourishing Bay  
Waller (great Poet and true Prophet too)  
Whose curious Pencil in Rich Colours drew  
The Type of this grand Triumph for your view.  
(The Fishers (like their Herrings) bleeding new)  
With the same hand shall give the World the Sights  
Of what it must expect when England Fights.  
That Son and Heir of Pindars Muse and Fame,  
Your modest Cowley, with Your breath will flame,  
And make those Belgic Beasts, who live aspire  
To fall your Sacrifice in his pure Fire.  
He shall proclaim Our JAMES great Neptune's Wonder,  
And, like a Jove, Fight in Clouds and Thunder.    

THE GRATEFUL NONCONFORMIST: OR, Return of Thanks to Sir J. B. Knight who sent the Author Ten CROWNS 1665.  

TEn Crowns at once! and to one man! and h●  
As despicable as bad Poets be!  
Who scarce has Wit (if you require the same)  
To make an Anagram upon your Name!  
Or to out-rime a Barber, or prepare  
An Epitaph to serve a Quinbrough Mayer!  
A limping Levite! who scarce in his prime  
Can woo an Abigal, or say Grace in rhyme!   

Ten Crowns to such a Thing! Friend, 'tis a do●●  
Able to raise dead Ben, or Davenant's Nose;  
Able to make a Courtier prove a Friend,  
And more than all of them in Victuals spend.  
This free, free-Parliament, whose gift doth sou●●  
Full five and twenty hundred thousand pound:  
You have outdone them, for yours was your own,  
And some of it shall last when theirs is gone.   

Ten Crowns at once! and now at such a time,  
When Love to such as I am, is a Crime  
Greater than his Recorded in Jane Shore,  
Who gave but one poor loaf to the starved Whore.  
What, now to help a Nonconformist! Now  
When Ministers are broke that will not bow!  
When 'tis to be unblessed to be ungirt!  
To wear no Surplice, doth deserve no shirt:  
No Broth, no Meat; no Service, no Protection;  
No Cross, no Coin; no Collect, no Collection!   

You are a daring Knight, thus to be kind;  
If trusty Roger get it in the wind  
he'll smell a Plot, a Presbyterian Plot,  
Especially for what you gave the Scot!  
And if the Spiritual Court take fire from Crack,  
They'll clap a Pariter upon your back:  
Shall make you shrug, as if you wore the Collar  
Of a Cashiered Red-coat, or poor Scholar.  
What will you plead, Sir, if they put you to't?  
Was it the Doctor, or the Knight did do't?  
Did you as Doctor, flux some Usurer?  
And with your quick, did his dull Silver stir?  
Or did your Zeal, you a Knight-Templer make,  
To give the Church the booties you should take?  
Or was it your desire to beg Applause?  
Or show affection to the good old Cause?  
Was't to feed Faction, or uphold the stickle  
Betwixt the old Church and new Conventicle?  
No, none of these, but I have hit the thing,  
It was because you knew I loved the King.   

Ten Crowns at once! Sir you'll suspected be  
For no good Protestant, you are so free.  
So much at once! sure you ne'er gave before,  
Or else, I doubt, mean to do so no more.  
This is enough to make a man protest  
Religio Medici to be the best.   

The Christians, for whose sakes we are undone,  
Would have cried out, oh! 'tis too much for one  
Either to give or take! what needs this waist?  
Oh, how they love to have us keep a Fast!  
Five private Meetings, (where at each, four men  
In black coats, and white caps, (you'll call them then  
A teem of Ministers) have tugged all day,  
Deserving Provender, but scarce got hey;  
Where I myself have drawn my part some hours,  
Have not afforded such return as yours.  
I'd wish them watch, and keep me sober still;  
Not want of guilt in them, nor want of will  
In me, but want of Wine does make me lame,  
Or else I'd sacrifice them to the flame  
Of a high blazing satire. Here's a man  
Who ne'er pretended at your rates, yet can  
More freely feed us, with Wine and good Dishes,  
Then they (yet that's their alms) with sighs and wishes   

Oh, for a Rapture! how shall I describe  
The love of thousands to their Reading Tribe!  
Who so maintained them, when they lost their places  
They did not lose one pimple from their faces;  
But after all, full fraught with flesh and flagon,  
Came forth like Monks, or Priests of Bel & Dragon  
One would have judged by their high looks & smells  
They had been kept in Cellars, not in Cells:  
Where they grew big and battened; without doubt  
Some that went Firkins in, came Hog's heads out.  
But ours in two years' time are skin and bones,  
And look like Grandames, or old Apple john's:  
One Lazarus amongst us was too much,  
But ere't be long we all shal● look like such;  
And when that comes to pass, the world shall see,  
Who are the Ghostly Fathers, they or we;  
And than our bellies (without better fare)  
Will be as empty as their Noddles are:  
Though we are silent, our guts will not be so,  
But make a Conventicle as they go:  
Poor Colon peace, and cease thy croaking din,  
Thou art condemned to be a Chitterlin.   

Niggardly Puritan! blush at the odds  
Betwixt the Bonners and the meager Dodds;  
You give your Drink in Thimbles, they in Bowls,  
Your Church is poor St. Faiths and theirs is Paul's;  
And whilst you Priests and Altars do despise,  
Yourselves prove Priests, and we your Sacrifice.   

But why do I permit my Muse to whine?  
I wish my Brethren all such cheeks as mine,  
And those that wish us well, such hearts as thine,   

My Noble Baber, I have chosen you  
For my Physician, and my Champion too;  
Give me but sometimes such a dose, and I  
Will ne'er wish other Cordial till I die,  
And then Proclaim you a most Valiant Knight,  
(Show but such Mettle) though you never Fight.    

A POEM UPON THE Imprisonment OF M R. CALAMY In NEWGATE.  

THis Page I send you Sir, your Newgate Fate  
Not to condole, but to congratulate.  
I envy not our Mitred men, their Places,  
Their rich Preferments, nor their richer Faces:  
To see them Steeple upon Steeple set,  
As if they meant that way to Heaven to get.  
I can behold them take into their Gills  
A dose of Churches, as men swallow Pills,  
And never grieve at it: Let them swim in Wine  
While others drown in tears, i'll not repine,  
But my heart truly grudges (I confess)  
That you thus loaded are with happiness;  
For so it is: And you more blessed are  
In Peter's Chain, than if you set in's Chair.  
One Sermon hath preferred you so much Honour,  
A man could scarce have had from Bishop Bonner;  
Whilst we (your Brethren) poor Erraticks be,  
You are a glorious fixed Star we see.  
Hundreds of us turn out of House and Home,  
To a safe Habitation you are come.  
What though it be a Goal? Shame and Disgrace  
Rise only from the Crime, not from the place.  
Who thinks reproach or injuries is done  
By an Eclipse to the unspotted Sun?  
He only by that black upon his brow  
Allures spectators more; and so do you.  
Let me find Honey, though upon a Rod,  
And prise the Prison, where my Keeper's God:  
Newgate or Hell were Heaven, if Christ were there,  
He made the Stable so, and Sepulchre.  
Indeed the place did for your presence call;  
Prisons do want perfuming most of all.  
Thanks to the Bishop, and his good Lord Mayor,  
Who turned the Den of Thiefs into a House of Prayer:  
And may some Thief by you converted be,  
Like him who suffered in Christ's company.   

Now would I had sight of your Mittimus;  
Feign would I know why you are dealt with thus.  
Jailor, set forth your Prisoner at the Bar,  
Sir, you shall hear what your offences are.   

First, It is proved that you being dead in Law  
(As if you cared not for that death a straw)  
Did walk and haunt your Church, as if you'd scar●e  
Away the Reader and his Common-Prayer.  
Nay 'twill be proved you did not only walk,  
But like a Puritan your Ghost did talk.  
Dead, and yet Preach! these Presbyterian slaves  
Will not give over Preaching in their Graves.   

Item, You played the Thief, and if'ft be so,  
Good reason (Sir) to Newgate you should go:  
And now you're there, some dare to swear you are  
The greatest Pickpocket that e'er came there:  
Your Wife too, little better than yourself you make  
She is th' Receiver of each Purse you take.  
But your great Theft, you act it in your Church,  
(I do not mean you did your Sermon lurch,  
That's crime Canonical) but you did pray  
And preach, so that you stole men's hearts away.  
So that good man to whom your place doth fall,  
Will find they have no heart for him at all:  
This Felony deserved Imprisonment;  
What can't you Non-conformists be content  
Sermons to make except you preach them too;  
They that your places have, this Work can do.  
Thirdly, 'tis proved, when you pray most devout  
For all good men, you leave the Bishops out:  
This makes Seer Sheldon by his powerful spell  
Conjure and lay you safe in Newgate-hell:  
Would I were there too, I should like it well.  
I would you durst swap punishment with me;  
Pain makes me fit for the company  
Of roaring boys; and you may lie a bed,  
Now your Name's up; pray do it in my stead,  
And if it be denied us to change places,  
Let us for sympathy compare our cases;  
For if in suffering we both agree,  
Sir, I may challenge you to pity me:  
I am the older Goal-bird; my hard fate  
Hath kept me twenty years in Cripplegate;  
Old Bishop Gout, that Lordly proud disease,  
Took my fat body for his Diocese,  
Where he keeps Court, there visits every Limb,  
And makes them (Levite-like) conform to him,  
Severely he doth Article each joint,  
And makes enquiry into every point:  
A bitter enemy to preaching; he  
Hath half a year sometimes suspended me:  
And if he find me painful in my station,  
Down I am sure to go next Visitation:  
He binds up, looseth; sets up and pulls down;  
Pretends he draws ill humours from the Crown:  
But I am sure he maketh such ado,  
His humours trouble Head and members too:  
He hath me now in hand, and e'er 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 sufferitgs do agree,  
One Bishop clapped up you, another me:  
But oh! the difference too is very great,  
You are allowed to walk, to drink and eat,  
I want them all, and never a penny get.  
And though you be debarred your liberty,  
Yet all your Visitors I hope are free,  
Good Men, good Women, and good Angels come  
And make your Prison better than your home.  
Now may it be so till your foes repent  
They gave you such a rich Imprisonment.  
May for the greater comfort of your lives,  
Your lying in be better than your Wives.  
May you a thousand friendly papers see,  
And none prove empty, except this from me.  
And if you stay may I come keep your door,  
Then farewell Parsonage, I shall ne'er be poor.    

ON THE DEATH OF M R. CALAMY, Not known to the Author of a long time after. Anno 1667.  

ANd must our Deaths be silenced too! I guess  
'Tis some dumb Devil hath possessed the Press;  
Calamy dead without a Publication!  
'Tis great injustice to our English Nation:  
For had this Prophet's Funeral been known,  
It must have had an Universal Groan;  
Afflicted London would then have been found  
In the same year to be both burned and drowned;  
And those who found no Tears their flames to quench,  
Would yet have wept a Shower, his Hearse to drench.  
Methinks the Man who stuffs the Weekly Sheet,  
With fine New-Nothings, what hard Names did meet.  
The Emp'ress, how her Petticoat was laced,  
And how her Lackeys Liveries were saced;  
What's her chief Woman's Name; what Dons do bring  
Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King:  
Is much concerned if the Pope's Toe but aches,  
When he breaks Wind, and when a Purge he takes;  
He who can gravely advertise, and tell  
Where Lockier and Ronland Pippin dwell;  
Where a Black Box or Green-Bag was lost;  
And who was Knighted, though not what it cost:  
Methinks he might have thought it worth the while,  
Though not to tell us who the State begnile,  
Or what new Conquest England hath acquired;  
Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired;  
Though not how Popery exalts its head,  
And Priests and Jesuits their poison spread;  
Yet in swollen Characters he might let fly,  
The Presbyterians have lost an Eye.  
Had Crackf— 's Fiddle been in tune, (but he  
Is now a Silenced Man as well as We)  
He had struck up loud Music, and had played  
A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid;  
He would have told how many Coaches went;  
How many Lords and Ladies did lament;  
What Handkerchiefs were sent, and in them Gold  
To wipe the Widows, he would have told;  
All had come out, and we beholden all  
To him, for th' oureflowing of his gall.  
But why do I thus Rant without a cause?  
Is not Concealment Policy? Whose Laws  
My silly peevish Muse doth ill t'oppose:  
For public Losses no Man should disclose;  
And such was this, a greater loss by far,  
One Man of God than twenty Men of War;  
It was a King, who when a Prophet died,  
Wept over him, and Father, Father cried.  
O if thy Life and Ministry be done,  
My Chariots and Horsemen, strength is gone.  
I must speak sober words, for well I know  
If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below,  
A lie, though in his Praise, would make him frown,  
And chide me, when with Jesus he comes down  
To judge the World.— This little He,  
This silly, sickly, silenced Calamy,  
Aldermanbury's Curate, and no more,  
Though he a mighty Mitre might have wore,  
Can have vied Interest in God or Man,  
With the most pompous Metropolitan:  
How have we known him captivate a throng,  
And made a Sermon twenty thousand strong;  
And though black-mouths his Loyalty did charge,  
How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge,  
To hale it home, great GEORGE can well attest,  
Then, when poor Prelacy lay dead in'ts nest;  
For if a Collect could not fetch him home,  
Charles must stay out, that Interest was mum.  
Nor did Ambition of a Mitre, make  
Him serve the Crown, it was for Conscience-sake.  
Unbribed Loyalty! his highest reach  
Was to be Master Calamy, and preach.  
He blessed the King, who Bishop him did name,  
And I bless him who did refuse the same.  
O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free  
To serve their Prince without Reward, as he,  
They might have had less Wealth with greater Love:  
Envy, like Winds, endangers things above;  
Worth, not Advancement, doth beget esteem;  
The highest Weathercock the least doth seem.   

If you would know of what disease he died,  
His grief was Chronical it is replied.  
For had he opened been by Surgeon's art,  
They had found London burning in his heart;  
How many Messengers of death did he  
Receive with Christian Magnanimity!  
The Stone, Gout, Dropsy, Ills which did arise  
Form Griefs and Studies, not from Luxuries;  
The Megrim too, which still strikes at the Head;  
These he stood under, and scarce staggered.  
Might he but work, though loaded with these Chains,  
He Prayed and Preached, and sung away his pains.  
Then by a fatal Bill he was struck dead,  
And though that blow he ne'er recovered,  
(For he remained speechless to his close)  
Yet did he breath, and breath out Prayers for those.  
From whom he had that wound: he lived to hear  
An hundred thousand buried in one Year,  
In his Dear City; over which he wept,  
And many Fasts to keep off Judgements kept;  
Yet, yet he lived, stout heart, he lived to be  
Deprived, driven out, and kept out, lived to see  
Wars, Blazing-Stars, Torches, which Heaven never burns,  
But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns.  
He lived to see the Glory of our Isle,  
London, consumed in its Funeral Pile.  
He lived to see that lesser day of Doom,  
London, the Priest's Burnt-sacrifice to Rome;  
That blow he could not stand, but with that Fire,  
As with a Burning Fever, did expire.  
Thus died this Saint, of whom it must be said,  
He died a Martyr, though he died in's bed.  
So Father Eli in the Sacred page  
Sat quivering with fear, as much as age,  
Longing to know, yet loath to ask the News,  
How it fared with the Army of the Jews.  
Israel flies, that struck his Palsie-head;  
The next blow stunned him, Your Sons are dead;  
But when the third stroke came, The Ark is lost;  
His heart was wounded, and his life it cost.  
Thus fell this Father, and we well do know  
He feared our Ark was going long ago.    

The EPITAPH.  

HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie,  
Who did INDEED a Bishopric deny.  
When his Lord comes, then, than the World shall see  
Such bumble Ones, the rising-Men shall be.  
How many Saints whom he had sent before,  
Shouted to see him enter Heaven's door:  
There his blessed Soul beholds the face of God,  
While we below groan out our Ichabod.  
Under his burned-Church his Body lies,  
But shall itself a glorious Temple rise:  
May his kind flock when a new Church they make,  
Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake.  
R. W.    

THE Loyal-Nonconformist; OR An Account what he dare swear and what he dare not swear. Published in the year, 1666.  

I Fear an Oath, before I swear to take it;  
And well I may, for 'tis the Oath of God:  
I fear an Oath, when I have sworn, to break it:  
And well I may, for Vengeance hath a Rod.   

And yet I may swear, and must too, 'tis due  
Both to my Heavenly, and my Earthly King;  
If I assent, it must be full and true;  
And if I promise, I must do the thing,   

I am no Quaker, not at all to swear;  
Nor Papist, to swear East, and mean the West;  
But am a Protestant, and shall declare  
What I cannot, and what I can protest.   

I never will endeavour Alteration  
Of Monarchy, nor of that Royal Name,  
Which God hath chosen to command this Nation,  
But will maintain his Person, Crown and  
Fame:   

What he commands, if Conscience say not nay,  
(For Conscience is a greater King than he)  
For Conscience-sake, not Fear, I will obey;  
And if not Active, Passive I will be.   

I'll pray that all his Subjects may agree,  
And never more be crumbled into parts;  
I will endeavour that his Majesty  
May not be King of Clubs, but King of Hearts.   

The Royal Oak I swear I will defend;  
But for the lvy which doth hug it so,  
I swear that is a Thief, and not a friend,  
And about Steeples fit far to grow.   

The Civil-Government I will obey;  
But for Church-Policy I swear I doubt it;  
And if my Bible want th' Apocrypha,  
I'll swear my Book may be complete without it.   

I dare not swear Church-Government is right  
As it should be; but this I dare to swear,  
(If they should put me to't) the Bishops might  
Do better, and be better than they are.   

Nor will I swear for all that they are worth,  
That Bishoprics will stand, and Doomsday see;  
And yet I'll swear the Gospel holdeth forth  
Christ with his Ministers till then will be.   

That Peter was a Prelate they aver;  
But I'll not swear't when all is said and done:  
But I dare swear, and hope I shall not err,  
He preached a hundred Sermons to their one.   

Peter a Fisher was, and he caught Men:  
And they have Nets, and in them catch Men too;  
Yet I'll not swear they are alike, for them  
He caught he saved: these catch, and them undo.   

I dare not swear that Courts Ecclesiastic  
Do in their Laws make just and gentle Votes;  
But I'll be sworn that Burton, Pryn and Bastwick  
Were once Ear-witnesses of harsher Notes.   

Archdeacon's, Deans and Chapters are brave men,  
By Canon, not by Scripture: but to this,  
If I be called, I'll swear, and swear again,  
That no such Chapter in my Bible is.   

I'll not condemn those Presbyterians, who  
Refused Bishoprics, and might have had'em:  
But Mistress Calamy I'll swear doth do  
As well as if she were a Spiritual Madam.   

I will not swear, that they who this Oath take,  
Will for Religion  lay down their Lives:  
But I will swear they will good Jugglers make,  
Who can already swallow down such Knives.   

For Holy Vestments I'll not take an Oath  
Which Linen most Canonical may be;  
Some are for Lawn, some Holland, some Scots-cloth;  
And Hemp for some is fit than all three.   

Paul had a Cloak, and Books, and Parchments too;  
But that he wore a Surplice I'll not swear,  
Nor that his Parchments did his Orders show,  
Or in his Books there was a Common-Prayer.   

I own assistance to the King by Oath;  
And if he please to put the Bishops down,  
As who knows what may be, I should be loath  
To see Tom Beckets Mitre push Crown   

And yet Church-Government I do allow,  
And am contented Bishops be the men;  
And that I speak in earnest, here I vow  
Where we have one, I wish we might have ten.   

In fine, the Civil Power I'll obey,  
And seek the Peace and Welfare of the Nation:  
If this won't do, I know not what to say,  
But farewel London, farewel Corporation.   
R. W.    


THE RECANTATION Of A Penitent PROTEUS; OR, The CHANGELING.  
As it was acted with good Applause in St. Mary's in Cambridge, and St. Paul's in London, 1663.  
To the Tune of Dr. Faustus.  
London, reprinted in the year, 1668.   

Proteus' his penal Resolution, speaking alone in the Tiring-house before his entering the Pulpit.  

OH I am almost mad, 'twould make one so,  
To see which way Preferments game doth go.  
I ever thought I had her in the Wind,  
And yet I'm cast above three years behind.   

Three times already I have turned my Coat;  
Three times already I have changed my Note:  
I'll make it four and four and twenty more,  
And turn the Compass round ere I'll give over.   

Love to Church-members I will give no more;  
For how I'll only court the Scarlet Whore.  
I'll ask the Bishop's blessing; and good-night  
To Thomas Goodwin, and his Child of Light.   

Poor man, he wears his Caps too much in's eyes  
To be my Guide, No, I must be more wise.  
On all my Brethren I will look awry,  
And cry, Stand farther off to Philip Nye.   

Ambition, my great Goddess and my Muse,  
Inspire thy Prophets all such Arts to use,  
As may exalt; Betwixt this and my Grave  
A Mitre, or a Halter, I must have.   

Tell me (Ambition) prithee tell me why  
So many Dunces Doctors and not I?  
A Scarlet Gown I must and will obtain,  
I cannot else commence a Priest in grain.   

Among the Doctors I can get no room  
Till I recant; that is my shameful doom.  
Hang shame, I'll do it, and my end's to gain,  
I'll cant, recant, and re-recant again.   

Now help me great Ambition, for thy sake  
To break my sleep, to break my Brains, to break  
My Faith and Oaths, and so to act my part,  
That men may think I have a broken Heart.   

When I do preach my tears do trickle down;  
But in my sleeve (my Cassock sleeves and Gown)  
I laugh, to think how by my whining trade  
So many Fools in one day I have made.   

Help me my Muse, a new Song I desire  
By thee may be prepared for the Choir,  
That when my Recantation Sermon's done,  
This Penitential Anthem may be sung.   

But yet one thing ere I begin, I crave  
A benefit, which Poets use to have,  
That now and then, to make my Rhymes agree,  
What ends in Lie, may be pronounced LEE.   

The Second Part; Or, the Changeling in the Pulpit. To the same Tune.  
ATtend good People, lay by scoffs and scorns,  
Let Round-beads all this day pull in their Horns,  
But let Conformists and brave Caveliers  
Unto my doleful Tone prick up their Ears.   

Take from my neck this Robe, a Rop's more fit;  
And turn this Surplice to a Penance-sheet,  
This Pulpit is too good to act my part,  
More fit to preach at Tyburn in a Cart:   

There I deserved t' have taken my degree,  
And Doctor Dun should have presented me;  
There with an Hempen Hood should be sped;  
And his thee-cornered Cap should crown my head.   

Here I am come to hold up guilty hand,  
And of the Beast to give myself the brand;  
Here by confessing I have been i'th' wrong,  
I come to boar myself through my own tongue.   

In Learning my poor Parents brought up me,  
And sent me to the University;  
There I soon found bowing the way to rise:  
And th' only Logic was the Fallacies.   

In stead of Aristotle's Organon,  
Anthems and Organs I did study on;  
If I could play on them, I soon did find,  
I rightly had Preferment in the wind.   

I followed that hot scent without control,  
I bowed my body, and I sung Fa Sol;  
I cozened Doctor Cousins, and ere long  
A Fellow ship obtained for a Song.   

Then by degrees I climbed, until I got  
Good Friends, good , good Commons, and what not?  
I got so long, until at length I got  
A Wench with Child, and then I got a blot.   

Before the Consistory I was tried,  
Where like a Villain I both swore and lied  
And from the whore I made I was made free,  
By purging of myself Incont'nent-LEE.   

But as I scorned to father mine own Brat,  
'Twas done to me as I had done with That;  
The Doctors all, when Doctor I would be,  
As a base son, refused to father me.   

With much ado, at length by art and cunning,  
My Tears & Vows prevailed with Peter Gunning  
Me to adopt; and for his love and care,  
I will devote myself to Peter's Chair.   

Cambridge I left with grief and great disgrace,  
To seek my fortune in some other place;  
And that I might the better save my stake,  
I took an Order, and did Orders take.   

Amongst Conformists I myself did list,  
A Son o'th' Church as good as ever pissed.  
But though I bowed, and cringed, & crossed & all,  
I only got a Vicarage very small.   

Ere I was warm (and warm I ne'er had been  
In such a starved hole as I was in)  
A Fire upon the Church and Kingdom came,  
Which I strait helped to blow into a flame.   

The Third Part.  
MY Conscience first, like Balaam's Ass, was shy,  
Bogled and winced; which when I did espy,  
I cudgeled her, and spurred her on each side,  
Until the Jade her paces all could ride.   

When first I mounted on her tender back,  
She would not leave the Protestant dull Rack,  
Till in her mouth the Covenant Bitten I got  
And made her learn the Presbyterian Trot;   

'Twas an hard Trot, and fretted her (alas)  
The Independent Amble easier was,  
I taught her that, and out of that to fall  
To the Tantivy of Prelatical.   

I road her once to Rumford with a pack  
Of Arguments for th' Covenant on her back.  
That Journey she performed at such a rate,  
Th' Committee gave me a rich piece of Plate.   

From Hatfield to St. Alban I did ride,  
The Army called for me to be their Guide;  
There I so spurred her, that I made her fling,  
Not only dirt, but blood upon my King.   

When Cromwell turned his Masters out by force;  
I made the Beast draw like a Brewer's horse;  
Under the Rump I made her wear a Crupper,  
And under Lambert she became a Trooper.   

When Noble Monk the KING did home convey,  
She (like Darius' Steed) began to neigh.  
I taught her since to Organ Pipes to prance,  
As Banks his Horse could to a Fiddle dance.   

Now with a Snaffle, or a twined thread,  
To any Government she'll turn her head:  
I have so broke her, she doth never start,  
And that's the meaning of my broken heart:   

I have found out a cunning way with ease,  
To make her cast her Coat when ere I please;  
And if at Rack and Manger she may be,  
Her Colt's tooth she will keep most Wanton-LEE.   

I'll change as often as the Man i'th' Moon;  
[His frequent Changing makes him rise so soon]  
To eat Church Plumb-broth  it all be gone,  
I'll have the Devil's spoon but I'll have One.   

For many years my Tongue did lick the Rump;  
But when I saw a KING was turned up Trump,  
I did resolve still in my hand to have  
One winning Card, although 'twere but a Knave.   

If the Great Turk to England come, I can  
Make Gospel truckle to the Koran;  
And if their Turkish Sabbaths should take place,  
I have in readiness my Friday face.   

If lock in Iron Chest (as we are told)  
A Loadstone their great Mahomet can hold:  
The Loadstone of Preferment (I presage)  
To Mahomet may draw this Iron Age.   

The Congregation way best pleased my mind;  
There were more she's, and they most free and kind:  
By Chamber practice I did better thrive,  
Than all my Live, though I skimmed five.   

Mine Eyes are open now my Sins to see,  
With Tears I cry, Good People Pardon me;  
My Reverend Fathers Pardon I do crave,  
And hope my Mother's Blessing yet to have.   

My Cambridge sins, my Bugden sins are vile,  
My Essex sins, my sins in Ely-Isle,  
My Leicester sins, my Hatfield sins are many,  
But my St. Alban sins more red than any.   

To CHARLES the first I was a bloody foe,  
I wish I do not serve the Second so:  
The only way to make me leave that trick,  
Is to bestow on me a Bishopric.   

This is St. Andrews Eve, and for his sake  
A Bishopric in Scotland I could take;  
And though a Metropolitan there be,  
I'd be as Sharp, and full as Arch as he.   

Now may this Sermon never be forgot,  
Let others call't a Sermon, I a Plot,  
A Plot that takes, if it believed be;  
If not I shall repent Unfained-LEE.   

I must desire the Crack-fart of the Nation,  
With rev'rance to let fly this Recantation;  
Our Names tied tail to tail, make a sweet change,  
Mine only is Strange-Lee, and his Le-strange.     


THE PORING DOCTOR, OR The Gross mistake of a Reverend Son of the Church, in bowing at the nam● of Judas at St. Paul's, November 5. 1663.  

THe Papists, God wots,  
made a notable Plot  
Against the Church and the State;  
Which some with good reason,  
Call Gunpowder-Treason,  
Discovered ere 'twas too late.   

Those who before,  
Had weltered in gore  
Of Protestant Martyrs slain,  
Resolved with one breath,  
Of Hell beneath,  
To blow up all by a Train   

The Bishops, good men,  
Were in jeopardy then,  
The Lords, the Commons, the King;  
Religion, and Laws,  
For the Catholic Cause  
To be made a Burnt Offering.   

Thus swelled with despite,  
To raise darkness and night,  
Heaven caused the brood to miscarry;  
That day big with Thunder,  
Held forth Mercies wonder,  
And therefore kept Anniversary.   

You the present Lord Mayor,  
And Brethren repair,  
With the several Corporations,  
To Paul's Church to pray,  
And solemnize the Day  
That so seasonably saved three Nations.   

But good Doctor—  
When he came before ye  
The Sacred Gospel to read,  
At Judas his name,  
(O horrible shame!)  
He bowed his Reverend head.   

Some say that his fight  
(Poor man) is not right,  
I wish that it be no worse;  
But others think he,  
To Judas bowed th' knee,  
For love he bears to the Purse.   

His Worship made doubt,  
Where the battle was fought,  
When Michael did prevail;  
But to me it is clear,  
For an hundred a year  
He'll bow to the Dragons Tail.   

Twelve Spiritual Promotions,  
A head full of Notions,  
With stomach more sharp than a Sith,  
Some of Bishopsgate there,  
Perhaps did appear,  
Whose  were pawned for his Tithe.   

These things set before,  
And some small reasons more,  
His slender wit had overthrown,  
Nor can he tell how,  
To read, cringe or bow  
By any one's Book but his own.   

What then shall we say,  
Can he Preach, can he Pray,  
Or put to rebuke the Gainsayer,  
Who in reading the Word,  
Discerns not our Lord  
From him that was his betrayer?   

Sure this doting Fool,  
Must once more to School  
Before his return to the Altar,  
Such another mistake,  
May possibly make  
His neck to deserve a Silk H—     


THE FAIR QUARREL. By way of Letter, Between Mr. Wanley, a Son of the Church; and Dr. wild, a Nonconformist.  
Published in the Year, 1666.  
London, Reprinted in the year, 1668.   


Mr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity.  

SO the bright Taper useless burns  
To private and recluded Urns.  
So Pearls themselves to shells confine,  
And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,  
As thou my WILD while thou dost lie  
Huddled up in thy privacy,  
And only now and then dost send  
A Letter to thy private Friend;  
Take once again thy Lyre, and so  
Let thy selected Numbers flow,  
As when thy solemn Muse did prove  
To sing the Funeral of Love;  
Or, as when with the Trump of fame  
Thou didst sound forth great George's name,  
In such a strain, as might it be,  
Did speak thyself as great as he.  
For while great Cowley seeks the shade,  
And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;  
When Davnant's weary Quill lies by,  
And yields no more of Lombary;  
While the sweet Virgin Muses be  
By Wild led int' a Nunnery;  
While thus Apollo's Priests retire,  
The Females do begin t' aspire,  
Pretending they have found a flaw  
In great Apollo's Salic Law;  
These grasp at Laurel, only due  
To such as I have named, and you.    

Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley.  

WHat jolly Shepherd's voice is this  
Would tempt me from my private bliss,  
After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder  
Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,  
Under whose boughs in fairer days  
We sat secure, and sang the Praise  
Of our great Pan, whose care did keep  
The pleasant Shepherds and their Sheep?  
Is this a time with wanton strains  
To whistle forth the Nymphs and Swains  
To sport and dance, while Wolf and Fox  
Lie lurking to devour our Flocks,  
And Rome's Sheep-stealers ready stand  
To give them their red letters brand?   

Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son,  
What th' Plague and Fire have lately done?  
London hath sent up such a smoke;  
As may the Angel's voices choke,  
And make tears big enough, to vent  
sears in a deluge, to lament  
The raging fury of that Flame,  
But more of those that made the same;  
And when St. Paul has lost his Qnire,  
'tTwere Sacrilege to touch my Lyre.  
None but a monster Nero may  
Over a burning City play.  
Nor would I sing, were I a Jew;  
To please a Babylonish Crew.  
Now since the time for sorrow cries;  
In this I freely temporize.  
So the bright Stars draw in their light;  
When Clouds club for an ugly night.  
So all the Birds of Music sleep  
On stormy days, and Silence keep.  
So frost-nipped Roses droop and fall,  
Perfuming their own funeral.  
So you have seen a well-tuned Lyre  
Swelling itself with grief and ire.  
In gloomy air, each heartbroken string  
It's own last passing-bell doth ring.  
So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds,  
Our softer Muses Music drowns.  
Sir, by my many foes you know  
My Poetry is but so so.  
But why dost thou disdain or fear,  
That Female brows should Laurel wear?  
Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree  
Itself was made out of a she?  
The Muses and the Graces all  
We of the Female Gender call;  
And so if you have not more care,  
You'll find the Furies likewise are.   

Nor would I have you wonder why  
Our Poets all amort do lie,  
When Claret and Canary cease,  
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.  
Vintnars and Poets fall together,  
If once the lvey-Garland whither.   

Sweet Cow thought (as well he might)  
He should hrve shined in Phoebus' sight;  
But Clouds appeared, and he that made  
Account of Juno, found a shade;  
And though on David's Harp he played,  
The evil Spirit can't be laid:  
Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,  
And his own Secretary proves.   

Your next man's temples Laurel scorns;  
Since greater pride his brows adorns.  
He to Pernass. bears no good will,  
Becanse it proves a horned hill.  
The very thoughts whereof I dread  
Will ne'er be got out of his head.   

Gondebert's silent, suppose,  
Because his Muse sings through the nose,  
One syllable of which poor he  
Did lose by an Apocope.   

Wild says, kind Wanley you're to blame  
Amongst these Swans his Goose to name,  
Yea though his lucky gagling yaul  
Once help to save one Capital;  
His love to Love then made him fear  
His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear.  
Next he did one a Loyal string  
His Georgics and his Carols sing;  
But now because he cannot to't  
To Organtunes, he's made a mute;  
And though alive, condemned to death;  
Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath;  
Although presumed and hot does come,  
To blow wind in a dead man's bum;  
Yet as a gteateful Legacy,  
He leaves to thee his Nunnery,  
Not doubting but if need require  
Thou'lt prove an able loving Friar.    

2. Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild.  

WHat sullen wary Shepherd's voice is this,  
That won't be tempted from his private bliss,  
But arbored up in Eglantine, while Thunder  
Threatens to rend and rive that Oak in sunder,  
Under whose boughs himself in fairer days  
Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise  
Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep  
At once the pleasant Shepherd and his Sheep?  
Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,  
And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat?  
Is this a time for an inglorious sloth  
To hug itself, not daring to peep forth  
Into the open field, while th' crafty Fox  
Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks,  
And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold,  
To fright the silly Sheep even in their Fold?  
Dost thou not know what crops the Plague his made  
And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?  
That if heavens wrathful Anger thus proceed,  
There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.  
London has sent up such a darkening smoke,  
And shall it too the Angel's voices choke?  
Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we  
Shall never more thy public Censers see?  
'Tis Sacrilege to rob the Church; and thence  
Since you have stole yourself, what's your offence?  
When the white Harvest for more Reapers cries,  
How canst thou freely sit and temporize?  
So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,  
When Phoebus powders all his locks with light.  
So feral Birds delight to sit alone,  
Till the Days glories are packed up and gone.  
So Roses fall in June when frosts are past,  
And on dull earth lie blushing out their last,  
So the Musician smothers his Sol fa,  
When he's entreated or to sing or play.  
So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat,  
Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.  
And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre  
Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,  
And seems to shiv'r at th' downfall of Paul's Quire.  
Say we not well, Agues will have their course?  
Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse  
The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer,  
That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker. But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,  
That plump Lyceus should grow lean this year?  
Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grapestone  
Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon?  
Which of the Muses or the Graces all,  
Did ere for Claret or Canary call?  
Is it not sung by the Venetian Swain,  
How the brisk Wine gives Horns to the poor man?  
And if you have no greater care, no doubt  
You'll find the Claret will revive your Gout,  
And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul  
Cry out for help to save thy Pedestal;  
Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,  
Practise worse tunes than Organs ever too't.  
This is a vain presage; thou sayest, the Dead  
Have outlived this, and have no Gout to dread.  
But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,  
Hark how the dead man's bum does let a fart.  
When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,  
'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum;  
To vote her of the Babylonish Crew;  
And set the Furies' on her with ha-loo.  
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;  
Had Dina kept at home, she'd saved her Honour.  
But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be;  
But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me?  
Dost think thy Son so sanguine and insano,  
To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano.  
This I should leave to any of the Crew,  
You may believe me though I were a Jew.  
And may my breath be still perfumed, why not?  
Since dead Corpse smell when they begin to rot.   

And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly,  
That it did seem to top the very Sky;  
And though he may have reason to be proud,  
Instead of Juno did embrace a Cloud;  
May he resume King David's Harp and play  
The Tarantul ' of discontent away.   

If denham's has so foully been betrayed,  
And his Enclosure 'gainst his will surveyed:  
May he recover all his Wits and more,  
And with such keen jambricks brand the Whore,  
That all may dread it worse than loss of life,  
To turn a Poet frantic for his Wife.   

Poor Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore,  
It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.  
Well may the bridge be down, when time doth meet  
To press it with his satire cloven feet.  
And thou with thy Apocopes art wont  
To scatter balls of thy Wildfire upon't.   

But shall I not, kind Wild, remember thee,  
Who hast bequeathed me such a Legacy?  
'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtle head;  
Wills have no force till the Testator's dead;  
And that none can have aught by thy bequest  
Till thou art better dead then in a Jest:  
Nor would I that in tenderness to me  
Thou shouldst suspect thine own sufficiency;  
Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed,  
'Tis Incest to ascend the Father's bed.  
What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child,  
Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild.  
And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see  
His Covent's better than thy Nunnery.  
He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,  
As thou, at his decease, but while he lives  
All these good wishes, such as he can spare.  
And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.  
May every Knight about us, that's inclined,  
Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind.  
Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee,  
And be so paid for all in Verse as he.  
May the poor Scholar ne'er want Sunday Pudden,  
When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden.  
May thy afflicted Toe ne'er feel the Gout;  
Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout;  
That thou mayest yet (at last) once more Protest  
That Recipe wants no Probatum est.  
Mayst thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;  
May I have brains to answer it again.  
May all that are of such good wishes sullen,  
Live till their good Friends bury them in Woollen.    

Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley.  

HOnestly done however, though the Stuff  
You sent be course the measure's larg● enough.  
The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,  
The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass:  
But now to pledge thee I am not inclined,  
You Sons o'th' Church are for large draughts I find.  
Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free  
In sending such a brimmer unto me,  
That Sunday last, long of that frolic bout,  
Thy Parish had but half a glass I doubt.  
Besides the drink is small, 've changed your gill,  
I wish you'd kept in your hogshead still.  
Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit  
To cool the stomach, though not help the wit;  
And that might be thy case: for certainly  
Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry;  
Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain  
To cast them undigested up again.  
Twelve lines returned the very same, that I  
Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply;  
Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread  
There is some Echo in thine empty head:  
Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so  
The young one learneth of the old to crow.  
Nay my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck;  
I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck:  
Now prithee Chick beware, for though I find  
That thou art right and of the fight kind,  
Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel  
My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel.  
Take this advice bofore you mean to fight,  
Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite.  
Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,  
Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tail;  
And thereby hangs another Tail, I find  
Thy subtle nose hath got my breech i'th' wind.  
If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break,  
A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make.  
Hark, hark, sayest thou, he let a fart! what though?  
It breathes forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow;  
Nor is there any Statute of our Nation  
That says, in five miles of a Corporation  
If any Outed-man a Fart should vent,  
That you should apprehend the Innocent.  
If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot,  
What had you said if I had bullets shot?  
Fie man! our mouths were stopped long ago,  
And would you have us silent too below?   

But I displayed my bum before thine eyes  
Unkindly thou sayest, I say otherwise;  
For there thou mightst have thy resemblance took,  
Dead men's blind cheeks do very wanley look.  
And For the crack it gave, that did but mind thee,  
To strive to leave a good report behind thee.  
As for the gall which in your Ink appears,  
That in our sufferings we are Volunteers;  
I'll not say much, I have more wit than so,  
'Tis scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:  
But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip  
Your Brothers back which you did help to strip.  
Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before,  
Who killed those, whom his Covenant had made sore.  
And you know who they were that gave the blow,  
And then cried, Prophesy who smote thee so?  
We durst not keep our Live for our lives,  
But they must needs go whom the Devil drives.  
Yea but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,  
And would not work in one, north ' other keep.  
I answer. No great Harvest yet appears,  
I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears.  
And though the Foxes breed, what need you care,  
When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are.  
For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cries,  
Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.  
Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,  
To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee.  
Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,  
When staked at Tick-tack, soon be played away.  
Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,  
And friendly part, as we did friendly meet.  
Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me,  
Accept this Litany I send to thee.   

May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joined,  
As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrined;  
May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphere  
Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;  
May that blessed Life credit Conformity,  
And make e'ven Puritan to honour thee.  
Mayst thou to Christ such shore of Converts bring,  
That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.  
May God love you, and you love God again;  
And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.      

THE TABLE.  

ITer Boreale. p. 1  
The Tragedy of Mr. Chr. Love, late Minister of the Gospel, Acted upon Tower-hill, Aug. 22. 1651. p. 22  
Upon the much to be lamented Death, of the Reverend Mr. Vines. p. 29  
To the Memory of Mr. Jer. Whitaker. p. 31  
Upon the Death of so many Reverend Ministers of late. p. 34  
An Elegy upon the Earl of Essex his Funeral. p. 36  
To the Father of a very virtuous Virgin deceased, who desired an obscure person to make an Elegy. p. 38  
In memory of Mistress E. T. p. 40  
An Epitaph upon E. T. p. 42  
Upon the Learned Works of the Reverend Divine, Mr. Edw. Reynolds. p. 43  
Another. p. 45  
Aliud. ibid.  
An Epitaph for a Godly-mans' Tomb, p. 46  
An Epitaph for a Wicked-mans' Tomb, ibid.  
A Letter to a Friend. p. 47  
Alas poor Scholar, etc. p. 51  
The Norfolk and Wisbich . p. 56  
Upon the Death of Dennis Bond, Esq; p. 60  
Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a sheet. p. 63  
An Essay upon the late Victory obtained by his Royal Highness the Duke of York, against the Dutch, June 3. 1663. p. 64  
The Grateful Nonconformist; or a Return of Thanks to Sir J. B. Kt. who sent the Author Ten Crowns p. 66  
A Poem upon the Imprisonment of Mr Calamy in Newgate. p. 71  
On the Death of Mr. Calamy, no● known to the Author of a long tim● after. p. 73, 74  
The Loyal Nonconformist, or an account what he dare swear, and what he dare not swear. p. 84  
The Recantation of a Penitent Proteus; or the Changeling: as it was acted with good applause in St. Mary's in Cambridge, and St. Paul's in London: in three parts. p. 91, 93, 96.  
The Poring Doctor; or the gross mistake of a Reverend Son of the Church, in bowing at the name of Judas, Novemb. 5. 1663. at St. Paul's. p. 100  
The Fair Quarrel: by way of Letter, between Mr. Wanley, a Son of the Church, and Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist. 107   
FINIS.