Dr. Wild's Poem. IN NOVA FERT ANIMUS, &c, OR, A NEW SONG TO AN OLD FRIEND from an OLD POET, Upon the Hopeful New Parliament.  

WE are All tainted with the Athenian-Itch,  
News, and new Things do the whole World bewitch.  
Who would be Old, or in Old fashions Trade?  
Even an Old Whore would fain go for a Maid:  
The Modest of both Sexes, buy new Graces,  
Of Periwigs for Pates, and Paint for Faces.  
Some wear new Teeth in an old Mouth; and some  
Carve a new Nose out of an aged Bum.  
Old Hesiod's gods Immortal Youth enjoy:  
Cupid, though Blind, yet still goes for a Boy;  
Under one Hood Hypocrite Janus too,  
Carries two faccs, one Old, th'other New.  
Apollo wears no Beard, but still looks young;  
Diana, Pallas, Venus, all the throng  
Of Muse's Graces, Nymphs, look Brisk and Gay,  
Priding themselves in a perpetual May.  
Whiles doting Saturn, Pluto, Proserpin,  
At their own ugly Wrinkles Rage and Grin;  
The very Furies in their looks do twine;  
Snakes, whose embroidered skins nenew their shine;  
And nothing makes Great Juno chafe and scold,  
But Jove's new Misses slighting her as Old.  
Poets, who others can Immortal make,  
When they grow Grace, their Laurels them forsake;  
And seek young Temples, where they may grow Green;  
No Palsie-hands may wash in Hippocrene;  
'Twas not Terse Claret, Eggs, and Muskadine,  
Nor Goblets Crowned with Greek or Spanish Wine,  
Can make new Flames in Old Ben Jonson's Veins,  
But his Attempts proved lank and languid strains:  
His New Inn (so he named his youngest Play)  
Proved a blind Alehouse, cried down the first Day:  
His own dull Epitaph— Here lies Ben Johnson,  
(Half drunken too) He Hickcupt— who was once one.  
Ah! this sad once one! once we Trojans were;  
Oh, better never, if not still we are.  
Rhymes, of Old Men, Iliack passions be,  
When that should downward go, comes up we see,  
And are like Jewsears in an Elder-Tree;  
When Spectacles do once bestride the Nose,  
The Poet's Gallop turns to stumbling-Prose.  
Sir, I am Old, Cold, Mould; and you might hope  
To see an Alderman dance on a Rope,  
A Judge to act a Gallant in a Play,  
Or an Old Pluralist Preach twice a day;  
Of a Thin Tailor make a Valiant Knight,  
Or a good Subject of a Jesuit;  
As an old Baldpate (such as mine- you know)  
Should make his Hair, or Wit and Fancy grow  
Nor is there need that such a Block as I  
Should now be hewed into a Mercury.  
When Winter's gone, the Owl his foot may spare,  
And to the Nightingales resign the Air.  
Such is the beautiful new face of things:  
By Heaven's kind Influences, and the Kings,  
Joy should inspire; and all in measures move,  
And every Citizen a Virgil prove.  
Each Protestant turn Poet; and who not  
Should be suspected guilty of the Plot;  
If, now the day doth dawn, our Cocks forbear  
To clap their Wings and Crow, you well may swear,  
It is their want of Loyalty, not Wit,  
That makes them sullen, and so silent sit.  
Galli of  kind— I'll say no more,  
But that their Combs are Cut, and they are sore;  
Yet to provoke them, my old Cock shall Crow,  
That so his Echo round the Town may go.   

Upon the New PARLIAMENT.  
MY Landlord underproped his House some years,  
Was often warned— 'Twould fall about his Ears;  
For the main Timber, That above, and under,  
By every Blast was apt to rend asunder.  
This year He gently took all down, and then  
What of the Old proved sound, did serve again.  
May all the New be Heart of English Oak,  
And the whole House stand firm from fatal stroke,  
And nothing in't, the Founder  provoke.  
My Grandam, when her Bees were old and done,  
Burnt the old Stock, and a new Hive begun;  
And in one year she found a greater store  
Of Wax and Honey then in all before.  
Variety and Novelty delights;  
Old Shoes and Mouldy Bread are Gibeonites.  
When  grow threadbare, and breeds Vermin too,  
To Long Lane with them, and put on some new:  
When Wine turns Vinegar— All Art is vain,  
The World can never make it Wine again.  
'Tis time to wean that Child, who bites the Breast;  
And Chase those fowls that do befowl their Nest.  
When Nolls Nose found the Rump began to smell;  
He docked it, and the Nation liked it well.  
Cast the old-marked and greasy Cards away,  
And give's a new Pack, else we will not play;  
Nothing but Pork, and Pork, and Pork, to eat!  
Good Lanlord give's fresh COMMEN for our Meat.  
Trent Council Thirty years lay soused in pickle,  
Until it proved a stinking Conventicle.  
And now Old Rome plays over her old Tricks,  
This Seventy-nine, shall pay for Sixty-six:  
Out of the Fire, like new refined Gold,  
How bright new London looks above the Old,  
All Creatures under Old Corruptions groan,  
And for a New Creation make their moan:  
The Phoenix (of herself grown weary) dies  
Unto succession a burnt-sacrifice.  
Old Eagles breed bad Hawks, and they worse Kites,  
And they blind Buzzard (as Old Pliny Writes),  
Deans, prebend's, Chaplains think themselves have wrong,  
When Bishops live unmercifully long;  
And poor Dissenters beg they may ascend  
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end.  
And who hath not by good experience found  
Best Crops are gained by new-broken ground,  
And the first seed— OATS sifted clean and sound?  
But yet Old Friends, Old Gold, Old King, I praise:  
Old Tyburn take them who do otherwise:  
Heaven Chase the Vulture from our eagle's Nest,  
And let no Ravens this March-Brood molest?  
So Sings poor Robin redbreast.   
FINIS.