AN ANSWER To the AUTHOR of Humble Thanks for His Majesty's Gracious Declaration FOR LIBERTY of CONSCIENCE.  

'TWixt Heaven and thee, how sprung these fatal jars,  
That thou (Poor Robin) railest against the Stars?  
To thee what have their influences done,  
With so much zeal to bark against the Moon?  
On Heaven's Tables if thou knewest what's writ  
As well as on the Earthly what is set,  
We would allow thou mightst the feud maintain,  
Enabled by the belly not thy brain:  
These things, alas, transcend thy scrutiny,  
Their Language is but Arabic to thee;  
Thou that couldst never yet higher advance,  
Then Dod, and Cleaver, and the Concordance.  
Thou knowst not that the Square of Mercury  
To Mars afflicts a Punner's brain, yet we  
Find it alas, to be too true in thee.  
We know what Saturn did at Barthol'mew,  
And some are of opinion so do you:  
In those Dog-days had been the fittest time  
To curse thy Stars (Poor Robin) in lewd time;  
Mount Ano for Parnassus then had gone,  
Thou mightst have made with tears an Helicon,  
And fetched a Pegasus from Abingdon.  
But Now to rave, when a propitious ray  
Has shined on thee, and turned thy night to day;  
Now that the Claret-dispensation's come,  
And thou may'st vie for Toe with Him at Rome;  
Assumed the pristine Rubies of thy beauty,  
And art made capable of being gouty:  
What is it less than when no foe was near us,  
With so much heat to cry out, Curse ye Meroz!   

What have those Reverend Prelates done to thee  
Thus to blaspheme their pious memory?  
Gloucester, and learned Darham's name shall live,  
When thine in Grubstreet hardly shall survive.  
Unmannered man! in Stars, and Men, ill read,  
To trample on the Ashes of the Dead!   

Well! since the Royal Clemency has given  
Each man his leave to choose his way to Heaven,  
Clean, and unclean Beasts into one Ark driven:  
Since pressing i' th' Church-Militant disappears,  
And all men now are Gospel Volunteers;  
Since we are all united, let's agree,  
Think you no worse of us, then of you, we;  
For by your foul reflections we're afraid,  
You write the Good Old Cause in Masquerade.  
Instead of bonds and persecution,  
Wherewith you used to make the Pulpit groan,  
Thank our kind Prince who with compassionate eyes  
Looked down and pitied your infirmities.   

This may be done without or Rope, or Bell,  
And thus Dear Dogg'rel, heartily farewel.   
From the Star in ●olemanstreet, LONDON. SIR, Yours, Y. Z.   

With Allowance, May 6. 1672.   

LONDON, Printed for J. Edwin at the three Roses in Ludgate-street, 1672.