●n Ingenious Contention, by way of Letter, Between Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist.  ●●Dr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity. 

SO the bright Taper useless burns  
To private and recluded Urns.  
So Pearls themselves to shells confine,  
And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,  
thou my WILD while thou dost lie  
●uddled up in thy privacy,  
●nd only now and then dost send  
〈◊〉 Letter to thy private Friend;  
●ake once again thy Lyre, and so  
●et thy selected Numbers flow,  
As when thy solemn Muse did prove  
To sing the Funeral of Love;  
Or, as when with the Trump of fame  
Thou didst sound forth great George's name,  
In such a strain, as might it be,  
Did speak thyself as great as he.  
For while great Cowley seeks the shade,  
And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;  
When Davnant's weary Quill lies by,  
And yields no more of Lombardy;  
While the sweet Virgin Muses be  
By Wild led int' a Nunnery;  
While thus Apollo's Priests retire,  
The Females do begin t' aspire,  
Pretending they have found a flaw  
In great Apollo's Salic Law;  
These grasp at Laurel, only due  
To such as I have named, and you.   Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley. 

WHat jolly Shepherd's voice is this  
Would tempt me from my private bliss  
After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder  
Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,  
Under whose boughs in fairer days  
We sat secure, and sang the praise  
Of ●ur great Pan, whose care did keep  
The pleasant Shepherds and their Sheep?  
Is this a time with wanton strains  
To whistle forth the Nymphs and Swains  
To sport and dance, while Wolf and Fox  
Lie lurking to devour our Flocks,  
And Rome's Sheep-stealers ready stand  
To give them their red letters brand?  
Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son,  
What th' Plague and Fire have lately done▪  
London hath sent up such a smoke,  
As may the Angels voices choke,  
And make tears big enough, to vent  
Tears in a deluge, to lament  
The raging fury of that Flame,  
But more of those that made the same.  
And when St. Paul has lost his Choir,  
'Twere Sacrilege to touch my Lyre.  
None but a monster Nero may  
Over a burning City play.  
Nor would I sing, were I a Jew,  
To please a Babylonish Crew.  
Now since the time for sorrow cries,  
In this I freely temporize.  
So the bright Stars draw in their light,  
When Clouds club for an ugly night.  
So all the Birds of Music sleep  
On stormy days, and silence keep,  
So frost-nipped Roses droop and fall,  
Perfuming their own funeral.  
So you have seen a well-tuned Lyre  
Swelling itself with grief and ire.  
In gloomy air, each heartbroke string  
It's own last passing-bell doth ring.  
So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds,  
Our softer Muses Music drowns.  
Sir, by my many foes you know  
My Poetry is but so so.  
But why dost thou disdain or fear,  
That Female brows should Laurel wear?  
Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree  
●●self was made out of a she?  
The Muses and the Graces all  
We of the Female Gender call,  
And so if you have not more care,  
You'll find they Furies likewise are.  
〈◊〉 would I have you wonder why  
〈…〉 s all amort do lie,  
When Claret and Canary cease,  
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.  
Vintners and Poets fall together,  
If once the Ivy-Garland wither.  
Sweet Cow thought (as well he might)  
He should have shined in Phoebus' sight;  
But Clouds appeared, and he that made  
Account of Juno, found a shade;  
And though on David's Harp he played,  
The evil Spirit can't be laid:  
Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,  
And his own Secretary proves.  
Your next man's temples Laurel scorns,  
Since greater pride his brow● adorns.  
He to Pernass. bears no g●●d will,  
Because it proves a horned hill.  
The very thoughts whereof I dread  
Will ne'er be got out of his head.  
Gondebert's silent, I suppose,  
Because his Muse sings through the nose,  
One syllable of which poor he  
Did lose by an Apocope.  
Wild says, Kind Wanley you're to blame,  
Amongst these Swans his Goose to name,  
Yea though his lucky gagling yaul  
Once helped to save one Capital;  
His love to Love then made him fear  
His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear.  
Next he did on a Loyal string  
His Georgics and his Carols sing.  
But now because he cannot to't  
To Organ tunes, he's made a mute;  
And though alive, condemned to death:  
Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath,  
Although perfumed and hot does come,  
To blow wind in a dead man's bum;  
Yet, as a grateful Legacy,  
He leaves to thee his Nunnery,  
Not doubting but if need require  
Thou'lt prove an able loving Friar.   2. Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild. 

WHat sullen wary Shepherd's voice is this,  
That won't be tempted from his private bliss,  
But arbored up in Eglantine, while Thunder  
Threatens to rend & rive that Oak in sunder,  
Under whose boughs himself in fairer days  
Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise  
Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep  
At once the pleasant Shepherd & his Sheep?  
Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,  
And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat?  
Is this a time for an inglorious sloth  
To hug itself, not daring to peep forth  
Into the open field, while th' crafty Fox  
Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks,  
And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold,  
To fright the silly Sheep even in their Fold?  
Dost thou not know what crops the Plague has made  
And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?  
That if Heavens wrathful Anger thus proceed,  
There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.  
London has sent up such a darkening smoke,  
And shall it too the Angel's voices choke?  
Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we  
Shall never more thy public Censers see?  
'Tis Sacrilege to rob the Church; and thence  
Since you have stole yourself, what's your offence?  
When the white Harvest for more Reapers cries,  
How canst thou freely sit and temporize?  
So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,  
When Phoebus powders all his locks with light.  
So feral Birds delight to sit alone,  
Till the day's glories are packed up and gone.  
So Roses fall in June when frosts are past,  
And on dull earth lie blushing out their last  
So the Musician smothers his Sol fa,  
When he's entreated or to sing or play.  
So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat,  
Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.  
And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre  
Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,  
And seems to shiv'r at th' downfall of Paul's choir.  
Say we not well, A gues will have their course?  
Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse  
The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer.  
That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker.  
But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,  
That plump Lycëus should grow lean this year?  
Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grapestone  
Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon?  
Which of the Muses, or the Graces all,  
Did ere for Claret or Canary call?  
Is it not sung by the Venetian Swain  
How the brisk Wine gives horns to the poor man?  
And if you have not greater care, no doubt  
You'll find the Claret will revive your Gout,  
And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul  
Cry out for help to save thy Pedestal;  
Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,  
Practise worse tunes than Organs ever root.  
This is a vain presage, thou sayest; the Dead  
Have outlived this and have no Gout to dread.  
But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,  
Hark how the dead man's bum does let a fart.  
When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,  
'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum;  
To vote her of the Babylonish Crew;  
And set the Furies on her with ha-loo.  
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;  
Had Dina kept at home, she'd saved her Honour.  
But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be;  
But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me?  
Dost think thy Son so sanguine & insano,  
To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano.  
This I should leave to any of the Crew,  
You may believe me though I were a Jew.  
And may my breath be still perfumed, why not?  
Since dead Corpse smell when they begin to rot.  
And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly,  
That it did seem to top the very Sky;  
And though he may have reason to be proud,  
Instead of Juno did embrace a Cloud;  
May he resume King David's Harp and play  
The Tarantul ' of discontent away.  
If Denham has so foully been betrayed,  
And his Enclosure 'gainst his will surveyed:  
May he recover all his Wits and more,  
And with such keen iambics brand the Whore,  
That all may dread it worse than loss of life,  
To turn a Poet frantic for his Wife.  
Poor Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore,  
It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.  
Well may the bridge be down, when Time doth meet  
To press it with his satire cloven-feets.  
And thou with thy Apocopes art wont  
To scatter balls of thy Wildfire upon't.  
But shall I not, kind Wild, remember thee,  
Who hast bequeathed me such a Legacy?  
'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtle head;  
Wills have no force till the Testator's dead;  
And that none can have aught by thy bequest  
Till thou art better dead than in a Jest:  
Nor would I that in tenderness to me  
Thou shouldst suspect thine own sufficiency;  
Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed:  
'Tis Incest to ascend the Father's bed.  
What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child,  
Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild.  
And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see  
His Covent's better than thy Nunnery.  
He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,  
As thou, at his decease, but while he lives  
All these good wishes, such as he can spare,  
And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.  
May every Knight about us, that's inclined,  
Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind.  
Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee,  
And be so paid for all in Verse as he.  
May the poor Scholar ne'er want Sundays Pudding,  
When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden.  
May thy afflicted Toe ne'er feel the Gout;  
Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout;  
That thou mayst yet (at least) once more protest  
That Recipe wants no Probatum est.  
Mayst thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;  
May I have brains to answer it again.  
May all that are of such good wishes sullen,  
Live till their good Friends bury them in Woollen.   Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley. 

HOnestly done however, though the Stuff  
You sent be course, the measures large enough.  
The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,  
The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass.  
But now to pledge thee I am not inclined,  
You Sons o'th' Church are for large draughts I find.  
Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free  
In sending such a brimmer unto me,  
That Sunday last, long of that frolic bout,  
Thy Parish bade but half a glass I doubt.  
Besides the drink is small, you've changed your gill,  
I wish you'd kept it in your hogshead still.  
Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit  
To cool the stomach, though not help the wit;  
And that might be thy case: for certainly  
Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry,  
Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain  
To cast them undigested up again.  
Twelve lines returned the very same, that I  
Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply;  
Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread  
There is some Echo in thine empty head:  
Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so  
The young one learneth of the old to crow.  
Nay, my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck,  
I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck.  
Now prithee Chick beware, for though I find  
That thou art right and of the fight kind,  
Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel  
My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel.  
Take this advice before you mean to fight,  
Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite.  
Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,  
Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tail;  
And thereby hangs another Tail, I find  
Thy subtle nose hath got my breech i'th' wind.  
If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break,  
A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make.  
Hark, hark, sayest thou, he let a fart! what though?  
It breathes forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow;  
Nor is there any Statute of our Nation  
That says, in five miles of a Corporation  
If any Outed-man a Fart should vent,  
That you should apprehend the Innocent.  
If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot,  
What had you said if I had bullets shot?  
Fie man! our mouths were stopped long ago.  
And would you have us silent too below?  
But I displayed my bum before thine eyes  
Unkindly thou sayest, I say otherwise;  
For there thou mightst have thy resemblance took,  
Dead men's blind cheeks do very Wanley look.  
And for the crack it gave, that did but mind thee  
To strive to leave a good report behind thee.  
As for the gall which in your Ink appears,  
That in our Sufferings we are Volunteers;  
I'll not say much, I have more wit than so,  
‛ 'tis scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:  
But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip  
Your Brothers back which you did help to strip:  
Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before,  
Who killed those, whom his Covenant had made sore.  
And you know who they were that gave the blow,  
And then cried, Prophesy who smote thee so?  
We durst not keep our Livings for our lives,  
But they must needs go whom the Devil drives.  
Yea, but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,  
And, would not work, in one, nor th' other keep.  
I answer. No great Harvest yet appears,  
I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears.  
And though the Foxes breed, what need you care,  
When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are.  
For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cries,  
Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.  
Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,  
To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee.  
Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,  
When staked at Tick-tack, soon be played away.  
Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,  
And friendly part, as we did friendly meet.  
Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me,  
Accept this Litany I send to thee.  
May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joined,  
As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrined;  
May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphere  
Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;  
May that blessed Life credit Conformity,  
And make e'ven Puritan to honour thee.  
Mayst thou to Christ such store of Converts brings,  
That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.  
May God love you, and you love God again;  
And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.    

London, Printed in the Year, 1668.