Doctor COOPER at Work Upon DAUNCEY'S Bones: AND COOK licking his FINGERS After his Doses and Pill.  

O For the Doctor's lines, or Cleveland's, Dauncey  
To truss thee in, how bravely would I haunse thee,  
Then like a Jack o' Lent the first of March,  
In Cuerpo thou shouldst hang under some Arch,  
There to be played on by the wind, and noise  
Of Fishwives, Orange-wenches, and the Boys.  
Was't not enough the brethren felt his whip  
So smart and keen, but he must make thee skip  
Thou Jackanapes? think'st thou, thou piteous elf,  
To draw his anger on thy single self,  
And rescue so a number? foul-mouth no,  
You are beneath him, he's more worth than so.  
Lord, what a holy thing is want of clothes.  
How it keeps Balladers from drink and oaths!  
When there's no more to pawn, an oath were vain,  
Your words will go as far in Chart'r ' ouse lane.  
Thou seem'st boy to have taken his advice  
And gone to school again, and thou art wise  
In doing so, thou may'st be of his stables,  
thouart at the Dunghill now in AEsop's Fables.  
Your mine's Hell deep, we give a guess what's in't,  
Poets weare sure send nothing to the mint.  
weare pleased to see you wince, y'ave a galled hide,  
Your own breath stinks when 'tis to you applied.  
If your own words refounded be accursed,  
Your meaning was not wholesome at the first.  
Mark how this saucy Rascal begins his prate,  
As though the Doctor were an advocate  
OF foul debauchery: when in no man's hearing  
He ever spoke of drunkenness or swearing;  
Nor thinks there can be such a sin in fashion  
I'th' Clergy, 'tis hatched in your Imagination:  
There 'tis ye slanderous villains that ye frame  
An odious abuse, and then declaim.  
So I have seen a Coward draw his sword  
Against a Post, and every blow a word;  
Now if thou were't a man, I'd have thee here,  
And then again he cries I'd have thee there.  
Bring forth your swearers, and your drunkards too,  
Or on my word this Knight o'th' post are you.  
I a've a Physician that without perhaps  
Shall cure your mouth secure of after claps.  
Down o' your knees, thank God, and thank me too,  
'Tis well, 'tis well, now Gallows claim thy due;  
And when the Surgeon's chest has brought you sir  
Back from that tree, into their Theatre,  
The Doctor for a Lecture shall not stick,  
To send your bones unto the Devil to pick.  
You might have seen, had you been so inclined,  
(But as the saying is, hasty Curs are blind)  
The Doctor knew your Asse's meaning sir,  
And needs not you for an Interpreter.  
We like no coxeing friend, nor ever will,  
Joab and Judas both did kiss and kill.  
Had Griffin brayed against a man or two,  
Or on a County where such things they do,  
His Libel might have gone untaxed: but now  
To write at random thus, and to allow  
A roving Kite with full spread wings to fly  
Over the Nation, carrying infamy  
Thus undetermined; Dauncey 'tis too much,  
Ill minds conclude the Clergy all are such.  
This mischief he has done, and as we mention,  
We had but's own word for his good intention.  
This has your pious soul done, that can't drink  
Yond say, but shall I tell you what I think?  
What I have heard? Danncey I will take leave,  
For all your affidavit, t'undeceive  
My silly Countrymen, who live in doubt  
Some Minister of worth set this Cry out;  
Whose spirit bleeds within him for the sin  
That yet the people, and the Clergies in.  
But come cheer up my hearts, 'tis no such matter,  
This fellow in Divinity does but smatter,  
Hangs on the Press, and as his learning's small,  
His pays ten groats a ballad, and some Ale:  
Which not one Stationer alone does pay for  
But all the Crowd, which he goes first to stay for;  
The Common sponge, a fellow of no reckoning,  
Shall follow you to an Alehouse but for beck'ning.  
And be brought out again perhaps. But How!  
What do I see, Dauncey, the grizly brow  
Of Goblin Truth, Fathers in Truth, the thing  
Undid the Church, and cut the throat o'th' King?  
Choke us no more you R— with your minced meat,  
Fathers, feeds at discretion, we will eat,  
I and give thanks too for your institution,  
And call you fathers without diminution,  
Conservers of God's Oracles, bring these fellows  
Truth to confess, where they should do't toth' Gallows.  
And mark it Dauncey, see how thou art catched,  
As if thine own lie to betray thou'dst watched;  
When with comparison thou wouldst up-cry  
The faith of Griffin, As hath no reply.  
But Mr. Dauncey, now y'ave showed your lack  
Of wit and art, let me again go back,  
And view the subject of your declamation  
Not against things, but vices O this Nation.  
Are vices nothing? and's all this ado  
Made about nothing, by you Puppies two.  
Now you begin to belch up your disgrace,  
And spit foul Language in the Doctor's face;  
What are you proud of, that you thus beasse us,  
And knave us bluntly, is't Land in Parnassus?  
Who would not swear you're drunk? it is no ruth  
To conscience for a man to swear the Truth.  
Wouldst thou know what thou art? thou canst not miss,  
In the first Chapter of the Alchemist,  
Where Sub●l, Doll, and Face do seem to me  
Railing, to conjure for a name for thee.  
There read thyself, theyare thine all, and if't be  
Thy chance to scape a sadder destiny,  
When with the Stationers thou hast sucked so long  
Scot-free of Ale, as t'other has, whose tongue  
Thou now defendest, mayst thou by good prayers  
Rise by degrees, from Linkboy, to the Players;  
To be their book-keeper, and then grown bold,  
Upon thy parts, when thou art blind and old,  
Presume to write a play in thy last age,  
And have it basely hissed off o' the stage,  
For which thy heart must break, if it break not  
This minute, for thus having played the Sot.  
We are ingenuous, and do not deride  
Your poverty, you Knaves, no, but your pride;  
And cannot choose but laugh, to see the Saints  
Have drunken Atheists to defend their plaints.  
So exit Dauncey.— Now comes Cook in fury,  
Lick-spit o'th' Law: speak sirrah to the Jury,  
There you may find a dozen of the name  
You give the Doctor, (Caterpillar of fame:)  
Beat me this Buckram Rogue, Falstaff, to seven.  
Nay if thou wilt, beat him into eleven,  
And if they have no better manners then,  
Send them to me, I'll beat them all again.  
Knaves that do nought but quirk upon his Calling,  
And quit their cause; 'tis time the Ass left bawling.   Martial. Ep. Dic tandem aliquid de tribus Capellis.  


I Thought I'd finished William now, but hark,  
I'ave commendations to thee from the Clerk,  
Fogg in Rye dough, thou image of a Lawyer,  
Fitter to make a Carman, or a Sawyer,  
Much more than ordinary appears in you.  
Plead you for Asses, and are Asses too?  
Must Readers preach; has the Church no degrees,  
Nor order? Scribes go take the Lawyer's fees.  
Hell's where confusion is, and rotten speech,  
The Lawyer took's own pill, and spoke at's breech.  
The journey-pew supplies his need, as 'tis,  
Pray, get your Ass a pulpit to serve his.  
He will not be the first Ass that e'er spoke  
Out of one, and got by't a suit and cloak.  
I wish thy libel might have pleased where't came,  
And that thou'dst had a more auspicious name  
At Westminster Hall Gate, he'll see that looks,  
what's to be thought of disaffected Cooks.  
God bless King Charles, so that he ne'er again  
Be troubled with such Rogues, speak Clark, Amen.   

Now stroke the Doctor's beard, ye Libel flingers;  
And if ye foul your hands, Cook lick your fingers.   
By Nat. Wildoe.   

LONDON, Printed for the Author, 1661.