A POEM UPON THE Imprisonment of Mr. Calamy IN NEWGATE.  By Robert Wild, D. D. Author of the late Iter Boreale. 

THis Page I send you Sir, your Newgate Fate  
Not to condole, but to congratulate.  
I envy not our Mitred men their Places,  
Their rich Preferments, nor their richer Faces:  
To see them Steeple upon Steeple set,  
As if they meant that way to Heaven get.  
I can behold them take into their Gills  
A dose of Churches, as men swallow Pills,  
And never grieve at it: Let them swim in Wine  
While others drown in tears, I'll not repine;  
But my heart truly grudges (I confess)  
That you thus loaded are with happiness;  
For so it is: And you more blessed are  
In Peter's Chain, than if you fate in's Chair.  
One Sermon hath preferred you to such Honour,  
A man could scarce have had from Bishop Banner;  
Whilst we (your Brethren) poor Erraticks be,  
You are a glorious fixed Star we see.  
Hundreds of us turn out of House and Home,  
To a safe Habitation you are come.  
What though it be a Goal? Shame and Disgrace  
Rise only from the Crime, not from the Place.  
Who thinks reproach or injury is done.  
By an Eclipse to the unspotted Sun?  
He only by that black upon his brow  
Allures spectators more; and so do you.  
Let me find Honey, though upon a Rod,  
And prise the Prison, where the Keeper's God:  
Newgate or Hell were Heaven if Christ were there,  
He made the Stable so, and Sepulchre.  
Indeed the place did for your presence call;  
Prisons do want persuming most of all.  
Thanks to the Bishop and his good Lord Mayor,  
Who turned the Den, of Thiefs into a House of Prayer:  
And may some Thief by you converted be,  
Like him who suffered in Christ's company.   

Now would I had fight of your Mittimus;  
Feign would I know why you are dealt with thus.  
Jailor, set forth your Prisoner at the Bar,  
Sir, you shall here what your offences are.   

First, It is proved that you being dead in Law  
(As if you cared not for that death a straw)  
Did walk and haunt your Church, as if you'd scare  
Away the Reader and his Common-Prayer.  
Nay 'twill be proved you did not only walk,  
But like a Puritan your Ghost did talk.  
Dead, and yet Preach! these Presbyterian slaves  
Will not give over Preaching in their Graves.   

Item, You played the Thief, and if't be so,  
Good reason (Sir) to Newgate you shall go:  
And now you're there, some dare to swear you are  
The greatest Pickpocket that ere came there:  
Your Wife too, little better than yourself you make,  
She's the Receiver of each Purse you take.  
But your great Theft, you act it in your Church,  
(I do not mean you did your Sermon lurch,  
That's crime Cononical) but you did pray  
And preach, so that you stole men's hearts away.  
So that good man to whom your place doth fall,  
Will find they have no heart for him at all:  
This Felony deserved Imprisonment;  
What can't you Nonconformists be content  
Sermons to make except you preach them too;  
They that your places have, this Work can't do.   

Thirdly, 'tis proved, when you pray most devout  
For all good men, you leave the Bishops out:  
This makes Seer Sheldon by his powerful spell  
Conjure and lay you safe in Newgate-hell:  
Would I were there too, I should like it well.  
I would you durst swaft punishment with me;  
Pain makes me fitter for the company  
Of roaring Boys; and you may lie a bed,  
Now your Name's up; pray do it in my stead,  
And if it be denied us to change places,  
Let us for sympathy compare our cases;  
For if in suffering we both agree.  
Sir, I may challenge you to pity me;  
I am the older Goal-bird; my hard fate  
Hath kept me twenty years in Cripplegate;  
Old Bishop Gout, that Lordly proud disease,  
Took my fat body for his Diocese,  
Where he keeps Court, there visits every L 〈…〉  
And makes them (Levite-like) conform to him,  
Severely he doth Article each joint,  
And makes inquiry into every point:  
A bitter enemy to preaching; he  
Hath half a year sometimes suspended me:  
And if he find me painful in my station,  
Down I am sure to go next Visitation:  
He binds up, looseth; sets up and pulls down;  
Pretends he draws ill humours from the Crown:  
But I am sure he maketh such ado,  
His humours trouble Head and members too:  
He hath me now in hand, and ere he goes,  
I fear for Heretics he'll burn my toes.  
O! I would give all I am worth, a fee,  
That from his jurisdiction I were free.   

Now Sir, you find our sufferings do agree,  
One Bishop clapped up you, another me:  
But oh! the difference too is very great,  
You are allowed to walk, to drink and eat,  
I want them all, and never a penny get.  
And though you be debarred your liberty,  
Yet all your Visitors I hope are free,  
Good men, good women and good Angels come  
And make your Prison better than your home.  
Now may it be so till your foes repent  
They gave you such a rich Imprisonment.  
May for the greater comfort of your lives,  
Your lying in be better than your Wives.  
May you a thousand friendly papers see,  
And none prove empty, except this from me.  
And if you stay, may I come keep your door,  
Then farewell Parsonage, I shall ne'er be poor.   
FINIS.