Doctor WILD's Squibs Returned; Or, Observations on his Counterfeit Thanks.  

HOw now my Wild? of Modesty forsaken?  
Hath Liberty thy Reason Planet-strook?  
Good Manners, that grown scarce too? has thy Zeal  
Devoured all Civility at a Meal?  
Doth none remain? is Wild turned Hector too?  
Making the Stars of Heaven and Earth to bow  
Under thy Whipcord? or, hast thou Beadle height?  
To lash Star-students coming in thy sight,  
Because they are but Men, and do not know,  
King's Hearts as well as God that made them so?  
Old Merlin's Genius haunts thee, or thy Crown  
Could never be so grossly overgrown  
With dull Stupidity. Is there no mean  
Between the Doubtful, and the Epicoene?  
Must men be Fools or Witches? can't Medics know  
Approaching Ills, but just the hour too?  
How Stars incline, for Mortals is enough;  
What Fates compel, none but the Gods above  
Can well declare; we'll not presumptuous be:  
To know in part, is Man's Felicity.   

Yet, should Astrologers write all they know,  
They would be then reputed Wild, as thou;  
'Tis Treason, Wild, to touch Great things too near  
But Madmen of such Crimes stand not in fear.  
Thy croaking humour is returned I see,  
Behold Fanatic Thanks for Liberty!  
Sure Mercury at thy Birth was in the Ram,  
In hostile ray of Mars, and thence it came,  
That thou didst thus disgorge thy troubled breast  
Which all the friendly Stars would have at rest.   

Some Opiate I advise thee for thy Health;  
Thy feverish Brain consumes thy spirits wealth.  
Bless thee from Madness, Wild! thy heat appears  
So strong 'gainst Bishops, ' thath increased my fears.   

But hark thee, Wild! what shall I fancy thee?  
A Theologue, or Spawn of Poetry?  
If a Divine, such Gravity should appear,  
As should be charming to each Heart, Eye, Ear;  
Such Olive Branches from thy Pen should spring  
As should beget a Love from every thing;  
Such blessed breathe from the sacred Choir,  
As kindle in all hearers Holy fire;  
Good Order then in Churches thou'dst approve,  
Not gibe at Bishops, but invoke their Love.   

But ah! my Wild, no such persuading Theme  
Art thou possessed of, (scarcely in a dream)  
thou'rt the fanatics Poet, and dost rant  
As high among them, as the best can cant;  
Singing of Thousand Quakers, that will fight,  
As loyally as angry Wild doth write.  
Thus uttering Squibs and Crackers, to provoke  
Some trifling Sheet to match thy smoke with smoke.   

No son of Saturn is my Wild I see,  
For then in private shades he'd quiet be;  
Nor fruit of Jove, for Jove is Juvans Pater,  
And helps, by's nourishing rays, our Alma Mater;  
Protects the Reverend Clergy, and maintains  
Religion's rights against Fanatic Brains:  
Bright Phoebus knows him not, for Princes shine  
From his fair Beams; Wild's spots endarken him.  
The beauteous Cynthia in him claims no part,  
She's a mere stranger to the Poet's Art:  
Besides, she's apt to change; would Wild were so!  
That he from— might good Churchman grow.  
To call him Son of Venus I not dare;  
And Hermes, nobly placed, will not care  
To own a Rhyming railer; 'tis hot Mars,  
Ill dignified, begets Wild's Metre-wars:  
He should be placed too with Dragon's tail,  
By th' poisonous raptures that so fills his sail.   

Then Son of Thunder, Religious Boanerges,  
(Great Second unto Pious Doctor Burgess)  
Not Priest, but Minister, or Poetaster!  
Whose halting doggrelrimes come from him faster  
Than Holy Sermons; cease thy Canting strain,  
Give ease a little to thy tired Brain;  
No more abuse Grave Prelates, lest the curse  
Of Schism, Heresy, or some what worse,  
So closely cling unto thee, that thy Prayers  
Missing heavens Blessing, stand in need of theirs.  
They are the Moysesses which daily do  
Sat in the gap to save such Souls as you.  
Is't Crime in them that you the Laws oppose,  
And must your obstinate stomach haulk at those?  
You'd be thought Loyal, and yet Prelates sting;  
None hate the Clergy that ere loved the King.  
But durst Wild be as bold with Majesty,  
As with the Bishop's Holy Hierarchy;  
He would as briskly vomit forth his Gall,  
(As now 'gainst Bishops) 'gainst ye Monarches all.   

So Wild farewell, thy person, parts I love;  
But mourn thy Principles no better prove.    

London, Printed for J. R. Anno Dom. 1672.