On the ANSWER to Dr. WILD'S POEM; UPON Mr. CALAMY 's Imprisonment.  

GLancing (as I passed) aside  
Upon a Ballad-Stall, I spied  
A Sheet, with Poem sprinkled o'er;  
At Sight, it seemed like Lawyer's Lore,  
With Lines that stood so thin and wide,  
As though they rated were by th' side;  
(And sure the Printer, that gave more  
Than Clerks pay for them, will be poor;)  
By this I thought, and by his Wit,  
I had the Squint-eyed Author hit;  
‛ Guest it the Pettyfoggers' Rhyme:  
But that it came forth in Term time;  
When the Green Bag, his Pia Mater  
Is better fraught; John Tailor's Water  
Is now converted into Wine;  
Th●t Poet now, can drink and dine  
On Dishes of more solid fare,  
Then the Chameleon Sisters are;  
Or yet Cook Lorrells; no need steal  
Ben Johnson's Sweapings for a Meal:   

But I'm mistaken in the man,  
There is another in the Van  
Of Libelers, Heroic Leader,  
And (to the Sense of Female Reader)  
A Champion stout; his name let pass,  
It Rhimes to Madam Baltinglasse,  
Which whom he Cheek by Jowl doth walk,  
And can do more with her than talk;  
This is the Bishop's trusty Roger,  
That bites with Teethy Quill like Badger;  
He that with help of Ha●tbert Blade,  
Ned Bagshaw by the Heels hath laid;  
When all his Troops of Verse and Prose,  
With all their dry and downright Blows  
Upon his sides, could make no dint,  
Nor more leave on them, than the print  
Of his foul Pen; This, this is he  
Tramples on Wild and Calamy  
With saucy Feet of Ballad Metre,  
Than which, the stinking Souls are sweeter  
Of Ballad Singers, or the Train  
Of Match Girls out of Rosemary Lane:  
Some write of Poets licking Spit  
From Homer's Lips the nasty wit  
That from his squalid Nib doth foam,  
Speaks him of some such Sire to come;  
Jack Pudding's Chaps with Custard smeared,  
And mixed with Candle smutted Beard,  
Not half so loathsome looks as thine;  
There's not one Muse of all the Nine  
So sluttish, but abhors to be  
Accounted Patroness to thee.  
But oh! bold Bard with brazen Front,  
That durst put Hudebras upon't!  
And filch away that Author's Fame,  
By counterfeiting of his Name;  
Not as Bathillus did, who put  
His Name to Virgill's Verses; but  
With far more impudence and shame,  
Thou hast to thine put Virgill's Name;  
Thus Vagabonds get Bread and Cheese  
In Country Towns, by Shifts like these,  
And by a counterfeited Pass  
Oft whipping escape; but Hudebras  
Shall not secure thee from my Scourge;  
For though thy Wit can little urge  
A Poet's Rage, yet who can see  
The foam of base scurrility  
On such men thrown by soul-mouthed Muse,  
And not a little Whipcord use?  
Which to a Halter I could twist,  
And make thy Wreath on't (if I list)  
But such gross Lines for Muse to wove,  
Is much beyond Poetic Leave;  
A Satirist may lash (no doubt)  
But not beyond his Whip Lash out;  
Thus to invade the Hangman's place  
With Sledge and Halter; foul disgrace  
Of Poet's Pen to treat of these,  
Which only Reader, Rout can please;  
Nay, (which the Muses more detest)  
To talk of Halters not in jest;  
A Poet's Wit though ne'er so keen,  
May be endured if without Spleen:  
But when the Bard once angry grows,  
His Wit outmatched, at best he shows.  
Then take thy swing I'll give thee Rope;  
Tangle thyself, I do not hope,  
Nor shall my wish extend to see,  
That Bishop lay his hands on thee,  
Which thou for Calamy and Wild  
Provided haste, in Verse so vild;  
That 'twere less Torture to be hung  
Out right, then thus be Ballad Sung  
By Sluttish Muse; let those that cry  
Kitchin-Stuffe to thy next reply;  
If more thou writest at this Rate,  
May'st thou be matched at Billings gate;  
Where with thy Hawkers on thy side,  
Thy prowess will be better tried;  
No Regiment of Red-Coats Stout,  
But of Red-petty-Coats the Rout,  
For thy Encounter fittest are;  
So Farewell Woman's Man of War.   
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for R. B. 1663.