A WIPE for ITER-BOREALE wild: OR, An Infallible Cure for the Gout.  
GOUT! I conjure thee by the powerful names  
Of Monk and Brown, and their victorious fames,  
To tell me (speak no doubt thou canst: speak, come,  

* Gout so called in his Letter to Calamy.  A Presbyterian Bishop can't be dumb)  
Why didst thou shackle the Poetic feet  
Of thy loved Master, when it was most meet  
They should be jogging. Can Monk and Brown die,  
And Wild be tame? not write an Elegy?  
Gout! thou'rt ingrateful: Hast so soon forgot  
Who made thee Bishop, did he make thee sot?  
See Presbyterian Humility;  
Even their Distempers Governors must be,  
A Gout installed a Bishop! hence we know  
Who you had rather should be at your toe.  
If thou art Bishop, Gout, speak, what dost all?  
Bishops the Church's loss use to bewail.  
Gout! keep thy place; if thou canst live at ease:  
Pity a Bishop should leave's Diocese.  
Monk, Brown die unlamented! sad disasters!  
See, see how Presbyterians love their Masters:  
You that at Public Triumphs sourly look,  
That in your faces even without a book,  
A Let'ny may be read; dare you not cry  
Good Lord deliver's when such men do die?  
That Conventicles must go down 'tis sign,  
When Conventiclers have forgot to whine.  
Shall England's Trusty, Loyal General die?  
And go to's grave without a single sigh?  
When Calamy, Rebellious Trump'ter shall  
Whole volleys have discharged at's Funeral:  
This seems not fair play, Wild, even to us boys,  
But you like us love them that make most noise.  
Hold! Hold! this is not all: this proud withstander  
Can't choose but hate Monk 'cause he was Commander  
Stay furious Muse: Let's breathe a little; come,  
We'll in again byth' ' help of Haw or Hum.  
Hum, Haw, nay stay, what shall we hold forth next?  
We'll keep t'our business, though we leave our Text.  
But to the matter: Wild 'tis wisely done,  
No people yet adored the setting Sun.  
To Heath'nish customs Saints cannot conform,  
When we are calmest, then's their Cue to storm.  
We applaud men when they go off the stage;  

* Witness Iter Boreale.  They when they enter, slighly to engage  
Them to their party: Such perverse Comedians  
Are all these Crablike, cross-grained Presbyterians.  
Monk! 
Iter Boreale.  that one Monosyllable out shines  
Plantagenets bright name, and Constantine's.  
They have the art to time things: this was wrote  
When George came newly out of th' arms o'th' Scot  
Oh then Wild thought for Kirk he would declare,  
And thought he should b' a niggard did he spare:  
But mark the end, George proves an honest man,  
And's hated by this Presbyterian.  
For did he love him, now's a time to show it,  
Monk's death's a subject that can make a Poet:  
Wild! of that Syllable why now ne'er a word,  
The reason's plain; Division it abhorred.  
If a recanting Penitent but part  
With's errors, saying, Mines a broken heart;  
'Gainst him Wild writes: Why? Lee doth hardness want,  
He can't be precious if no Adamant.  
If George deserved no Elegy▪ from thee,  
Yet shall the Duchess thus rewarded be▪  
She that from top to toe thee clothed; is't meet  
Thou shouldst not give her one poor winding-sheet?  
Canst not be Wild, but thou'lt be also rude?  
See (people) Presbyterian Gratitude.  
But stay, the Conscientious Sisterhood  
Perhaps do say, Sweet Doctored can't be good,  
For to revive a dead Monk's memory,  
We think it savours much of Popery.  
Most Sister-like advice! Are these your fears?  
Yet sure Brown's name sounds sweet i'th' Sectaries ears.  
This Brown's sure should in thine his Chaplain Wild:  
Hast thou thy Patron of his deuce beguiled?  
A Presbyterian is the greatest cheat,  
He'll not say Grace where he expects no meat.  
Perhaps these petty things Wild hath forgot:  
He's thinking what Noncon. dare swear, what not.  
I dare not swear they're truly Loyal; but  
When we their Swords have, I'll swear they'll not cut.  
I dare not swear they love to keep the Laws,  
But I dare swear they'd run to start the cause:  
Had they but opportunity to do't,  
And Wild would follow, though with limping foot?  
For all his Crackf— brag: Our King misled,  
We'll bite our nails rather than scratch our head:  
Or his We'll prove more Loyal, and more true,  
And give to Caesar and to God his due.  
Wild, hath thy Muse no subject? doth she want one?  
Let her next prophecy on Doctor Manton.  
And if he stay, Wild, come and keep his door,  
Hang Conventicles, than you'll ne'er be poor.  
Your City-brethrens sure will give you bub,  
And there with one another you may club  
For whining tones, 'gainst Bishops how to rant,  
Rich Wine will make you Doctors loudly cant▪  
And when guilt robs you of your sweet repose,  
O'th' Solemn League and Covenant take a dose.  
No doubt your hearts with joy it needs must fill  
To think you suffer: Why? to please your will.  
There read your Iter Boreale o'er,  
And spell that Backward which you wrote before.  
Your silence now says you dissembled then,  
Yet these are the plain dealing honest men.  
Wild vow you'll ne'er praise man more, till you know,  
Whether he'll live and die your Friend or Foe.  
I. M.   

LONDON, Printed in the YEAR, 1670.