A DIALOGUE Between DEATH AND Doctor ROBERT WYLD, Who Died lately of an APOPLEXY.  D. 

NO Roaring Christmas shalt Thou keep, now Roar  
Bold Wit! W. Oh! oh! Hhohh! Well! I'll cry no more,  
Alas, it is for Thee, not Me, to Roar.  
A Deadly Blow! But where's thy Sting? There lies  
The King of Terrors cowed out! In Sacrifice  
(An Eucharist) Lord, take this Soul to Thee,  
By Death Thou hast slain Death, Redeemed Me.  
Grave, take the Carcase, at the reckoning Day  
With Interest the Principal repay.  
Take Worms meat (they'll scarce lick the punched Face,)  
Bring't up in Glory, though sown in Disgrace,  
In never-fading Beauty it shall rise,  
And be transplanted int' yond Paradise.)  
They'll Dig the Kernels out (the Eyes) Dig on!  
One Breakfast makes the Head a Skeleton.  
They'll tease the Hands, and Toes, and Paunch (their Fence)  
Intolerable Pains, have numbed all Sense.  
'Twas not Seer Sheldon, when he turned Me out,  
Did Me perplex; no, it was Bishop Gout.  
Death did me vex and terrify much less,  
I'll now be gone out of his Diocese.  
I con you Thanks. Bish. Gout proceeded on,  
You granted me a Prohibition.  
Adieu, my Lord. D. I'm but a Pursuivant,  
To th' Court you to conduct, by Heaven sent.   W. 

I lived a Martyr all my Days, now I,  
In flaming Spices, like a Phoenix, Dy.  
My Heart bleeds for the Church and State, I faint,  
Take of my Cordial, Surviving Saint.  
Proud Babel Reels, it Totters, it will Fall,  
As sure as Lambeth stands against White-Hall.  
Come Seraphims, and bear this Soul above,  
Impatient to see her Vines, her Love.  
One Struck, with all the Clusters, Lop'd the Vine,  
One chopped off Love. Ha, ha! their Lot is Mine.  
They were so quick at Work, their Master's Voice  
Soon called them off; Into your Master's Joys.  
More Blessed Sight I'll see, ('Twill satisfy)  
The Glorious, Ever-blessed Trinity.  
Whom I Adored and Loved sometimes, Him I  
For e'er will Love, Admire, and Glorify;  
So, so, I'll spend a Blessed Eternity,  
In everlasting Love, Delights and Joy.  
Hal— Le— Lu.— Jah.   

Alas! Poor Scholar, hast thou felt the Stroke  
Of matchless Death? Are all thine Heartstrings broke?  
Who'll sing thine Iter Empyraeum? I  
After thy Bloodsuck send this Hue and Cry.  
Great Wyld is slain! Slain! Let this Shriek fly round  
Till Hills, and Dales, and Rocks, and Shore's rebound,  
Unto Pale Pyrene, and from thence go on  
Over Parnassus unto Helicon.  
Raise up the sluggish Sisters, Three times Three,  
In Lamentations Drop one Elegy.  
Streams Ever-flowing from each Muse's Eye  
May Spring a Fountain, now their Well is Dry.  
Tagus and Ganges will astonished be,  
And all th' Antipodes as well as We.  
Who slew the Muse's Darling, of Mankind  
The Choice Delights? Search out until you find.  
Who was't killed the Divine? Who slew the Poet?   Echo. 

Eat! What Nimble Chaps, what Cormorant was he  
Could eat up Wyld? Might not he poisoned be?  
Who poisoned Wild? Wakeman with all his Main  
Could not get Sacred Charles out of his Wain.  
He pawned his Skill, though Justice might not spy,  
A Plaster to the Fist affects the Eye.  
'Twas Death (that Jesuit) so greedy grown  
It chapt up Robert, and let George alone.  
Rome's Emissary Leeches, so fine bred,  
Won't touch Posteriors, they chap at th' Head.    

AN EPITAPH.  

HEre lies Poor Robin, most enriched one  
With Nature's Dowry, Grace's large Portion.  
Nature brought Reason, Prudence, Eloquence,  
And Magnanimity, Munificence,  
Courage and Constancy, and Matchless Wit.   

Grace Him adorned with Faith, and Hope, and Love,  
That Saints below he might excel, above  
With Patience, in none admired more;  
Nature and Grace on him laid out their Store.  
Rome's Plot to strangle Justicein Godfrey,  
Hell's was; in Wild, to choke Divinity.  
Here lies the Poet, here lies Poetry,  
Here's the Divine, here lies Divinity.   

Ah Fools! an inexhausted Springdoth Lie,  
Justice in Charles, in God, Theology.    

London, Printed in the Year 1679.