A CHARACTER OF THE New Oxford Libeler, In answer to his CHARACTER OF London Diurnal.  
Published according to Order.  
feb: 11th LONDON, Printed by M. S. for H. B. at the Castle in Cornhill. 1645.   

A CHARACTER OF THE Oxford Libeler.  
HE is a Gentleman grown lousy, not in the Noble way of Arms, but with singing of Ballads: Time was, when he wore himself out at Elbows with fine  to be cried up by the Women, and styled a Wit; When that would not do, he turned Alchemist, and made projection of his Land, to give a tincture to his brain. This wrought a little; but the chief of his Trophies is due to the Sword of his enemy: which, had it spared the Cedar, had left him a very Shrub in the Muse's Mount, hardly a Faggot of brush wood, though now he undertakes to hedge in victories, as the Sages of Gotham did the Cuckoo.  
The main thing that confirms him in his error is, that the great Ladies are all for the Cavaliers, to whose charms they at Oxford either give such an observance, as the Devil doth to Magicians, or keep them like Coy-ducks, or Pigeons of Aleppo, to send hither with letters, as they used to do Footmen to the Porter's lodge.  
The word Legislative he takes to be a Fiddlestring, and is always scraping upon it, though it seemed to his brother Waller (a man, as the Muses can testify, something sharper sighted) after a whole years study upon the point, to be a sadder object, and rather resembling an halter.  
He makes no use of religious Epithets, except it be to pin them, as Boys do Fox-tails, upon their backs, whom he would laugh at. He dares approach no nearer to the sanctity of the Common-prayer book, than Hopkins and Sternhold: but outdoes the Devil at Scripture, which he never brings out, but as the Jews did Christ, to scorn and spit upon it; he would not be hired to use the Legend, Talmud, or Koran so, because they resemble Ovid's Metamorphosis. He Christens Beasts and Men whom he imagines little better, with Scripture names, to make them iridiculous, whilst he gives Poetical ones to his Mistresses, not to be pronounced without adoration. And as he uses the best Book, because it resembles not his studies, so he doth the best men, because they resemble not his companions.  
If a man have zeal, like a right Bull-dogge, he flies strait at his Nose, the old Paris-garden common place, by which you may discover the breeding of his wit, and by a late snuffle he hath got in his own, whose tender gristle he laps up in dirty rags, raked out of the dunghill of ruined stages, is become as very a tyrant at it, as Sir john Falsestolf.  
He is so sad at the abortion of Plots, that he envies nothing so much as a good Midwife, a skill he intends to practise against Sir Edward Hides belly be brought to bed of Spinola's Whale. In the mean time, because Bristow's grown a dotard, he is contented to be Nurse unto the second infancy of his brain; but so dry a one, that he is fain to borrow Culpeppers sucking-bottle, which, whilst the Janissaries hold the town of Bristol, is sure never to want milk.  
I had almost overseen shady Cottington, who was pitched in Spain, horned in England, and moves ever since like Fauxe's dark Lantern: this fellow is a Burrachio full of Spanish snuffs, risen like the spirit of Sack from the Cellar to the Council-table.  
He would take it in foul scorn (though this puissant Knight's errantry never knew other career, then that which lies between a prison and an Alehouse) that you should celebrate him by the name of Don Quixot, or say, he hath a windmill in his head; no, it is a watermill, open but the sluice of a Hogshead, and you set Pericranium on work, like the great wheel, till his fists, the millstones, grind you the bottles (like Miscelline) to gather with the next noddle. He is a terrible State-engine, and had he lived in Machiavils time, would have set his head where his heels stood: he gives his Oracles, like Sibylla, flaming: he is the politic Barnaval; the Bacchanalia are to him but an Ash-wednesday.  
My Lord George helped our Libeler with two or three of his jests; and is absolutely, in his opinion (and his own) the hopesullest young Statesman, whilst his neck is able to support the weight of his brain, in Europe, though his Spanish gravity be something miscomposed by his late Treaty with Browne; since which time, he goes to the Council board like a Lictor, with a faggot in his face: and it is feared, because the Fates are women, that he will be less of their counsel for this deformity. He looks with fervent eyes upon the Lieutnant of the Hierarchy, Doctor Steward, whose foot he hopes, will stand its ground better than his Lord of Canterbury's head: indeed the foot is a fine foot, and hath cost something in Ribbon, to hang it for a doctrine & use in the eye of the Ladies, for he never hangs any in their ears. He would feign know for how long my Lord Hoptons' soul hath taken a lease of his body: perhaps for some seven years longer than his honour. He is very modest; for that's all he saith of his Oxford Champions. Where's Goring? hath that wild colt forgot the trick of trespassing upon the Commons? is the Legislative hedge too strong for him? hath he not been often enough sick of the staggers, to forget the Pinner of Wakefield? Where's little Porter, that came hither with a stratagem, to provide himself of an Office, and carry away the Town-gates with him, leaving (for your service, if you please to advance, Gentlemen) the city as penetrable, as he found his Mistress? Where's Gerrat●? how in cuerpo, upon the mountains of Wales, luring Domingo Gonsales his Gansas to conduct him to the country of the Moon? For shame, Poet, lend him Pegasus; shall one of your chief Commanders ride out of the world upon a Goose? And where's my Lord of Loughborow? cannot Aulicus, though you confess him to be a Witch, conjure up his spirits? are they all reduced to their subterranean mansion? or sit with their brown bills, cawing like Daws out of the holes of old walls? This is a sad Chronacek, Poet, to be written upon threadbare breeches. I pray you, how long is it since you saw a pair of new Boots? It was time to go to the Market at Uxbridge: there is no more hope of my Lord of Norwitches frippery, believe me, that design of his, to bring all the Nun's linen and petticoats into Sir Balthasar Gerbiers monte di pieta, is a dangerous one; for what will become of you, if the Whore of Babylon turn Adamite for want of a smock? Well, remember me to Mercurius Aulicus, he must raise the next army, and pay it too. I will make bold to borrow one of your diddles to lap a token of my love to him in.  
Argus doth now the Stock of Albion keep,  
Whose eyes Mercurius would lay asleep:  
But Mercury, new imp your heels, it stands  
You much upon, Argus hath Gerion's hands.  
And so farewell, Canis ad Nilum, with your snatches, and your ink that cures Ringworms; would it would cure the pox, that you might pleasure your friends, and redeem your land with your wit, as you purchased your wit with your land.  
FINIS.