THE WILD GOOSE CHASD.  
SIxteenthly; then beloved, it is so,  
Out of John Calvin's Relics Poets grow;  
Who, when their Pulpit plots are out of date,  
With Puny Ballads will infest the State.  
As Nessus when's approaching Fate he spied,  
Resolved to do some mischief  he died.  
Old Hydra, once at that prodigious height  
As to endure no wrong, nor do no right,  
Raised by fond error of misguided zeal,  
To trample on both King and Commonweal,  
Breathes her last dying groans now; and we see  
Has here found one to write her Elegy;  
One, who in time, I hope, need not despair  
To be Barred Laureate to a Quinborough Mayor,  
Unless a dreadful Halter intervene,  
Curing his lame toes of their gouty pain;  
One, who, if he proceed will never fail  
Clio to court instead of Abigail;  
One, who not yet forgetting through his Nose  
To cant out Treason in dull heavy prose,  
Although condemned to be silent, will  
Reiterate in Rhythms that Doctrine still;  
Who echoes out ten Crowns with such alarms  
As if he had both Indies in his arms.  
Those torrid Regions, whose black, squalid face  
Such never to b● valued gems do grace;  
Or bellowing to a crew of Crops,— even now,  
To help the Lord against the mighty, go;  
One, who might very well serve old Pope Sam  
To write Encomiums on each Sainted Name  
In his fair rubric of New Martyrs; than  
'Twould be like Poet, like Historian.  
he's the first Poet, and perhaps last too,  
Which on Geneva's dunghill ever grew.  
've here a Doctor Poet, Doctor Knight,  
A true Vespasian as e'er saw the light:  
Who thinks ten Growns smell well, though from the score  
Of fluxing some old painted, pocky W—  
The yielding Sisters turn not up their eyes,  
They have forgot to send their old supplies  
To Holders-forth; that golden age is gone,  
And you are left in Hopkins Rhythms to moan  
Or rail, like envious dogs, because the Moon  
Above their reach doth undisturbed run.  
Good Dr. Crackt-brains pray your anger spare,  
Because no Pimples do fall to your share,  
Except i'th' Codpiece; if so, I assure you,  
Get or the Doctor or the Knight to cure you.  
That on your ribs and hatchet faces there  
Can stick no flesh at all; you ever were  
Legitimate Calves of Pharaoh's pincht-gut Kine,  
Devouring all, and yet were ever lean;  
Your tribe more cruelty once practised  
Then ever Trajan, ever Decius did,  
Yet you pretended to be Christians; right,  
(Setting aside their ignorance o'th' true light)  
Both dare to write to say and think I shall,  
They had more real Virtue than you all.  
Trajan no Trajan was to his own Sect,  
Fierce Dioclesian did his own protect;  
You being Christians, Christians did undo,  
Yea  Christians than the best of you.  
And if that fatal Leprosy by Hell  
Of never thinking never speaking well,  
Was not entailed upon you, you would own  
The disproportioned grace kind Heaven showered down,  
On them, who, though by you thrust out of all,  
And kept out twice ten years, did never fall  
So low as some of you; you preached away  
All Charity and good works, and now can say  
Your wiser beard do sleight you; you may all  
By your own Engine like Perillus fall.  
As in the Babylonian Tyrant's reign  
Did thriving Daniel, ours return again  
Plump cheeked, without Mechanic arts; they say  
You pick Tobacco for a groat a day,  
And look like Ghosts (for which no body's sorry)  
Pickled a century in Purgatory,  
Crying, when shall we see that happy day  
That sweet Sack-possets frequent were as Whey;  
A race far worse than Vipers, who do tore  
Their Mother's guts, but to enjoy the air;  
These would again their Native Land destroy,  
To set up that blind cheating senseless toy  
The Covenant, or their now-contemned cause.  
Who study still to contradict the Laws.  
Base, cross-grained, sullen, peevish wretches, who  
Though they're undone, strive others to undo;  
Yet they were still Jackcalls to find the end  
Whereby a bitious spirits might ascend.  
Nero did-fire his Rome, 'tis plainly seen  
To satisfy his mirth, and not his spleen;  
But these to gratify their lasting hate  
Did, and endeavour still t'in flame the State.  
And Doctor Poet give me leave with you,  
Ere we have done to speak a Word or two;  
If you against your Brethren thus do write,  
You'll spoil your Iter Boreale quite;  
High blazing Satyrs do not please this age,  
Droll now is thought the best Poetic rage.  
It wont to be in Pulpits, now in Rhythms  
And on the Stage; oh manners! oh the times!  
However, if the 
* Poverty, 〈◊〉 the Pox.  Welsh Gout show you tricks,  
And Charon waft you over muddy Styx,  
(For your amphibious Doctor sent you coin  
Against your journey to procure some wine)  
That all may know you were a man of strife,  
I'll write your Epitaph, and old Clerk your Life.  
FINIS.