YOUR SERVANT SIR, OR Ralpho to Hudibras Descanting on Wild's Poetry.  

Lo, now comes he, that came not yet,  
Who cares not though his Master fret;  
As Shoemaker so hath Translator,  
In stirrup Foot; so Imitator  
Of Hudibras is little Ralph,  
But servant hath more wit bit'h half.  
This Doughty Knight by Puny Squire  
Out done is, as a simple Sire  
Is by his wiser Son surpassed,  
So much doth Ralph exceed this rash head,  
As doth the Choristers Sol fa-la-mi,  
Old Hopkins Rhimes when sung by Calamy.  
Brave Squire against proud Knight doth vaunt,  
And proves as stout a Combatant,  
With Oberon as was Pig-wiggin  
Whose head was armed with Achorn Piggin:  
Here may be seen, as in a Glass,  
The Mushroom wit of Hudibras,  
Who can't avoid in best of writing  
Such stinking stuff as that of sh—  
The Squire hath got the quicker sight  
Mounted on back of Giant-Knight.   

HAh, are ye come? Welcome Sir Hudibras,  
For all you are my Master, ye are an Ass.  
Parturient Montes sith you make a blunder,  
Not in Wild Squibs, but Lightning joined with Thunder,  
I question if you are as you pretend  
Unto the Bishops and the Church, a friend,  
For by those words a man that hath no eyes,  
May plainly see you do Hypberbolise:  
A Bishop's calmly urgent, makes no stir,  
Nor Thumps the Cushion like a Presbyter,  
He spits no fire, nor Wildly throws about  
Hell and Damnation amongst the rout;  
Flint breaks on Pillows: 'tis not Pulpit Thunder  
But mild persuasion melts men's hearts asunder.  
Sugar and Hony excelleth gall or Verjuice,  
A Barnabas wins more than Boanerges:  
Such fiery Zealots by their Frantic fits  
Drive others (like themselves) besides their wits.  
You play with th' Organs, and their virtue show,  
As if you thought there were no Devil below:  
After which your more sordid stile is held on,  
(Sans Reverence to the name of Paul's or Sh●ldon)  
'Gainst Calamy, by Metaphor descrying  
Your malice to a man that lies a dying,  
To kick a worm what glory may be found?  
That's dead in Law, and prostrate on the ground,  
Is he a bird of prey? (buzzard or Kite)  
Mute had been better far then plainly should—  
See how the Term with his condition suits,  
Preachers when silenced, what are they but Mutes?  
Thus do I (like yourself) quibble at quicquid  
In Buccham venerit, or Mute or liquid:  
Not that I hate you, yet you must not think  
That Wits whole Mass is lodged in the chink  
Of your own Scull, Sir, but that Ralph your man  
Hath somewhat likewise in the little pan  
Of's Pe●i●●●●●i●m is not such an Ass  
As still to be outvi'd by Hudibras.  
To wake the Bishops you do make a Roar,  
And tell them nought but what they knew before.  
How they should be a sleep I much do wonder,  
Since you compare them unto fire and Thunder,  
Though what you say of Calamy be true,  
Yet 'tis not meet to launce old sores a new,  
To write a crime that's passed on th'Actors Front,  
Whilst that Amnestia remains upon't.  
The King hath pardoned such, then why should we  
Stir up again their stinking memory?  
But if they Act again those faults a new,  
Then Dun and Devil (a God's name) take your due.  
Now leave we Calamy, and come to trace  
Thee Hudibras throughout thy Wild-goose Chase,  
In other manner than doth True de Case,  
Who lest he should be thought for to transgress  
Ends (Poetaster-like) The King God bless—  
Whose sacred name should not be made a Salad  
For Bread and Butter, such mean fares a Ballad.  
And here I must confess that Wild hath hit  
On several pretty passages of wit;  
Although your Knight-ship's pleased at's lines to flout,  
Saying his Verses (like him) have the Gout:  
The difference 'twixt you both is not a pin,  
squibbling and Squirting (Sir) are near a kin.  
'tis true, his rhimes too much abusive be,  
But thine's the more Profaner Ribaldry;  
In down right words he Jerks at Calamy,  
Thou at the Prelates by an Irony:  
Two Cocks well matched, for his Invention sprung  
From Tap and Spigot, thine flows from the bung.  
His Verse is vain enough, since wanton lines  
Become Knights Errand, rather than Divines,  
Being shrewdly vexed for that he cannot handle  
In Church a Text, he dies like snuff of Candle;  
Much discontented since that none will mind him  
And being dead, hath left a stink behind him.  
But Hudibras 'tis strange what should thee move  
To take i'th' Ashes of deceased Love;  
That son of Thunder by some men admired,  
Volleys whereof were heard when he expired.  
Thy Ravenous Muse too, wanting better Cates  
Must feed on Peter's Quarters o'er the Gates.  
Such Darts 'gainst their dead Carcases being hurled,  
May chance to vex 'em in the other world;  
And cause their Ghosts to haunt thee in the night,  
Enough to scare a poor Romantic Knight  
Out of his wits, if such a thing should be  
Thou wouldst be robbed of all thy Poetry:  
And if thy rhyming faculty once fail  
Thou'lt shortly after die for want of Ale.  
Or if thou dost hold on to vex Wild thus,  
Thou'lt make him furious as Archilocus,  
Whose keen iambics may thy credit blast.  
And force thee through a Rope to breathe thy last.   
FINIS.