An Answer For Mr. Calamie to a POEM Congratulating his imprisonment in NEWGATE. Entitled by Robert Wild. D.D. Author of the late Iter Boreale.  By J. R. Author of the late SMALL-BEER POEM. Sic. partis componere Magna. 

THE place your Worship, doth congratulate,  
Now void, doth for a new Incumbent wait.  
I know none fitter, than yourself, to take it:  
So pure a wit, a gainful place, will make it.   

Let me persuade you, Beg the Presentation;  
And I shall tell you, for your consolation,  
What your own heart could wish, here you shall find  
A pack of Auditors, will fit your mind:  
Conformists all, of the right stamp Cavaliers,  
Whose prayers are oaths, and whose Religion Jeers.  
Abuse the Saints sufficiently, and then,  
You'll hear them all devoutly swear Amen.   

You need not study much, nor break your brains:  
There that is valued best, that costs least pains:  
Stolen Ware, or so; they love with all their heart,  
If't be but done, as you can do't, with art.  
Quote Guznian, and the Spanish Lazarill:  
Among the rest, let these be chiefest still:  
Een-Johnson's plays with other moddern wits.  
And Aulicus; These you may quote by fits:  
And read sometimes, for it will much avail ye,  
A piece, out of your Iter Boreale.   

Be not ashamed, of this advice; I tell you;  
Your Betters have done so, that far excel you.  
The Saints did once, as you know well enough,  
Fill up their Sermons with Diurnal stuff.  
'Twas then well liked. But oh the change of Fates!  
Should we but do so now, they'd break our pates.   

St. Peter's Chair, you need not envy me:  
Give me Sir John's: this other yours shall be.  
St. Peter's Chair, was of dull Iron oar:  
Yet he wrought miracle's: this will work more!   

I'll tell you softly, between you and I,  
The godly have, a secret Deity:  
Though for to wrong him, they are somewhat shy;  
Because, the weak will call't Idolatry.   

Your long Indictment, is not worth a straw:  
'Tis draw 'gainst one, you say is dead in Law;  
And who compared with you, may seem at most,  
To be some Skelleton, or starv'ling Ghost.  
But see the rage of those, Poetic Knaves!  
They will not let us rest, within our graves!   

Then for the matter, of your accusation,  
'Tis so absurd; it needs no confutation.  
It is for stealing hearts; by this is meant,  
A Robbing of the party by consent.  
If this be Felony, Good-sir, take heed!  
For this will prove a dangerous theft indeed,  
When you take tithes, and of men's moneys fob them;  
(Though by consent) They may cry out, you rob them.   

I like your, Allegory, of Bishop Gout;  
And so do others too, I make no doubt.  
Some Presbyterian Bishop 'tis I Guess;  
For this is painful, in his Diocese.  
What! though he make you grieve; 'tis for your good:  
His visitations, stir your idle blood.  
God sends such visiters, for Lazy drones:  
Makes them unwilling, preach with sobs, and groans.  
he'll teach you too, without the Common-Prayer,  
To cry, Ah! Lord! thy rotten Servant spare!   

Would you be free, from Bishop Gouts vexation?  
I'll teach you how by the best observation.  
Preach much but study little; for 'tis ease,  
And idle sitting, that breeds this disease.  
Leave drinking sack; get Carosses for your lungs;  
And this will help you, to a thousand tongues.  
Preach, Preach, with all the noise, and vehemence you can!  
Till you become some megger Puritan:  
Subdue your pamp'red flesh, with thinner diet;  
And then, I'll promise you, you shall be quiet,  
From Bishop Gout, and from Dean Dropsy too;  
They'll shun you then, as Lawyers, poor folks do.   

But to your praise, i'll speak it, I protest!  
Y'have proved Episcopacy, 'bove all, the best;  
That they have Jus-Divinum, to their places;  
You here have clearly proved it to their faces:  
Now my Lord Gout, may with good grace and sense,  
Writ Bishop, by Divine providence.  
For 'twas not man, but God gave him Commission;  
And fixed in your precinct, his jurisdiction.  
And may his Government prove somewhat mild!  
Or else I fear 'twill make the Doctor wild.   

But more than this; you have proved learnedly;  
Far above others, their Antiquity:  
As old as Father Noah, I Divine:  
Who planted first, the Gont-producing Vine.   

Thus you have stopped, the mouths of peevish sects;  
And cleared the question, in despite of Smects.   

Much joy have you, with your Diocesan!  
May he ne'er meet, with any Puritan.  
Or Lawless Schismatics! but make them bow,  
To his commands! or plague them! you know how.  
May he find none, where ere he Domineers;  
But good conformists honest Cavaliers!   

But Sir! there's yet one scruple left behind;  
Which not a little, doth perplex my mind.  
The narrow Diocese, you do all ot,  
Unto your Bishop doth not any jot.  
Advance your cause; but for all this you may,  
Be counted one, of th' Independent way.  
No further than yourself, your Bishop reaches:  
This every Quaker and Fanatic teaches.   

'Tis Large enough, (you'll say) for every man,  
A little world! his Soul Diocesan!  
Sir! this is Popery; I'll make it plain!  
An Universal Bishop, you ordain!   

But now let's see, where all this sickness lies!  
You, if you can, A remedy devise   

When States shall breed, more learned, active Spirits,  
Then they can keep or answer to their merits;  
You must not think, they'll starve or beggar be,  
If by their empiric, they can earn a Fee.  
Whilst Idiots, Women, Hawks and Hounds devour:  
The fattest tithes, once the poor Church's Dower.  
Whilst the impropriate Lord, will not consent,  
To yield his needy vicar, Ten per cent;  
You must not think it strange, if discontents,  
Work in the Church and State such fatal rents;  
And that compelled men seek Benevolence,  
From better Christians honest Citizens.   

Let this be Remedied, all Schisms will fail,  
And none will then presume to write or rail.  
Who so doth otherwise, the Symptoms cures;  
But not the Malady: that still endures.  
We Love the King, and would his love deserve,  
If Preaching will not; then our prayers must serve!  
Make you the empty air, wit Clamours ring.  
Our Prayers shall reach to heaven! God Save the King!   
FINIS.   

London Printed in the Year 1663.