Poor Robbin's Parley with D R. wild, OR, Reflections on The HUMBLE THANKS for His Majesty's Declaration FOR Liberty of CONSCIENCE.  

NOW that the Dust (Sir!) pretty well is laid  
which by your Capering you lately made.  
When several Poetasters of the times,  
Run out ha-loo to Bull-bait your bold rhymes,  
chattering at you as Troops of smaller Fowl,  
Are wont against (Minerva's bird) the Owl;  
And your late Tipsied muse ('tis hoped again,  
Has after this large cast settled her Brain.  
Vouchsafe t'admit your Brother to your sight,  
Who yet comes more to parley then to fight.   

When first the Hawkers Bauled i'th' streets Wild's name,  
A liquorish longing to my palate came;  
A Feast of wit I looked for, but, alas!  
The meat smelled strong, and too much sauce there was,  
The Northern March, who would not grieve to see't,  
Forced to claim kindred with a Ballad-sheet?  
Methoughts it could not be, Wild's noble vain,  
Should dwindle thus into a Dogg'rel strain,  
Whose Muse of yore did on a Loyal string,  
Triumphant Georgics, and brave Carols sing,  
His Language flowing, and his fancies fine,  
Rich as his face, and sparkling as his wine  
That he should now in hobbling Metre creep,  
That (like his Sermons) only invites to sleep.  
But I le not rob you of the glory due  
Unto this Doughty Feat, on second view  
I find there's cause to guests (Sir!) 't may be you.  
Who but a Doctor skilled in all the Arts,  
To mince a Text in four and Twenty parts,  
So apily could Commence his humble Thanks,  
With Threescore Lines about Star-Readers pranks,  
With Tales of pimping Cuckolds, picking Fobs,  
Going to Stool, and such grave witty Bobs,  
Upon your Priesthood tell us Sir; of late  
Have you not Exercised nigh Billingsgate?  
We hereby find without a figure cast,  
That still your Wild Fanatic Freaks do last,  
The Dragon's Tail to the Horoscope doth cling,  
And in your mouth lies its Envenomed sting,  
Which makes you Hiss at Reverend Prelates thus,  
And seek once more to start, the old lusty Puss.  
'Cause you have got your rambling Liberty,  
So great, So universal and so free  
Must sacred Functions taste your Railleree.  
Must you go dream, and wish the Rotchet may,  
To the Lay-Elders Motley Coat give way?  
The lofty Mitre to the Blew-bonnet vail,  
And grave Cassock to curtailed Jump strike sail;  
Shall Wild-boars that not long since trampled down  
Our thriving Vines, and crushed them on the ground?  
Now d●ess our Vineyards, or they feed our Flock  
Who brought our Royal Shepherd to the Block?  
No, let such Vultures Lurk in Bushes Cold,  
Whilst still our Loyal Swans their Steeples hold;  
But tell me Wild! Is't not a Bull, or worse,  
We shall ha'th milk, yet you would fain be Nurse?  
'Tis plain you mean to starve the little brood,  
Or (what some fear) would bring them up with blood;  
You'd have all Join, even the Quakers too,  
(Infects that first crawled out upon's from you)  
And yet each Line betrays your cursed intent,  
Is only old Divisions to foment,  
To scoff at Clergymen of all degrees,  
And saucily to Style them Judass  
Is sure t' Abuse this Act of Grace, the King  
Indulged your Preaching not your Libelling;  
To try your Tempers was his Royal will,  
And you're but on your good Behaviours still;  
Since your long Silenced Tongues again set free,  
And gouty Toes to have their liberty,  
Methinks henceforth they should in Pulpits prance,  
And not thus wantonly in Sonnets Dance;  
Fie! Fie! A Minister and Lampoon! give'ore  
Here's other fish to fry, play the fool no more  
In Rhyme, but now begin on the other Score.  
Hark how the Thicksculled Rams of your Fold bleat,  
Away then with your Pipe, and give them meat;  
The kinder Sisters too, come thronging round,  
From Theeving-Lane, White-Chappel, Horsly-down;  
Whose free Benevolence more Treasure brings  
Then all our Tithes and Easter-offerings;  
Besides their Loving zeal's so great some say,  
They know how to oblige another way;  
Up, precious Man! then with a melting Tone,  
A pious Goggle, and Sergeant groan,  
With tedious prayers, holy sayings abused,  
Good words forty times to no purpose used;  
Strange Raptures, and Face wrinkled as if there  
The Gospel were Transcribed in Character;  
Hold forth, till not one Handkerchief's left dry,  
But all do weep, though not one Soul knows why;  
By such your well known Arts, thou'lt get o'th' sudden,  
Good Wine, good Candles, good refreshing Pudden;  
And for Tyth-piggs the Curate may'st Defy,  
Since all the Sows belong unto thy Sty.   
POOR ROBIN.   

LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1672: