Dr. WILD'S echo, OR, A full Answer to his POEM on the IMPRISONMENT OF MASTER CALAMY.  

FAir Umbra, I salute you, who wert made  
( Ex nihilo nihil fit) Doctor of a shade  
Poet in rhymes, great orator in sense,  
Score up a man for his intelligence.  
Whose Pulpit-Rhet'rick finds a poetic air  
To damn the Sinner without book or prayer, 
His Poetical Droll upon a Sinner, is well remembered.   
Clear words but misapplied t' a sense most vexed,  
As if the Application slay the Text.  
Well, 'tis resolved, that I do rout your rhymes:  
even as the Gout doth recollect your crimes;  
For every limb a grief: oh! here's the Sinner,  
Who then must be the Man for t' Devils dinner.  
This is your Pulpit stuff, then baste your roast  
And turn, least you become a burned toast  
And so Don Calamy shall be your host.  
Methinks you sympathise, conversion small,  
Where the first turning finds no grief at all,  
Imprisonment, oh! that's a thing of price  
Adam in prison was, in Paradise.  
Imprisonment, thus Danae was in hold,  
When Jupiter came raining down with gold.  
Imprisonment, a slain, oh, that's a grace:  
Black spots add beauty to the whitest face.  
Imprisonment, who would not prisoner ly,  
That he might fare, as once Don Calamy?  
Thus I have saved your humour, and your cause  
But can't abide the breaking of our Laws.  
Tell me then( Sir) wherein did lye his glory,  
That He is made our Ages talk and story,  
For his Imprisonment: All things observe  
A rule in doing duty, and ne're swerve.  
When that the Sun doth rise, and brightest shine  
It still maintains its progress by the line.  
When that the Stars do in heav'ns roads appear,  
They regulate their motion by the sphere.  
The beasts are grateful, and receive direction  
From that hand, which doth give them a protection  
The senseless echo hears the mouths confession,  
And doubles o'er the speech in the expression.  
The Sun may teach the factious Rout to shine,  
And yet observe external discipline.  
The Stars may learn the Presbyterian Seers  
For to move regular within their spheres.  
The Beasts may teach them for to take direction  
From that kind hand, that gives them a protection,  
The hollow echo may learn them their shares,  
To make Responsals to our Church's prayers.  
Then save your compliment in the first Rhyme,  
A punishment is natural to a Crime.  
If that the Sun should wander from its road,  
Darkness, its brighter Brow must straightway load.  
If Stars should wanton it without their sphere,  
They must not in heavens Gallaxy appear.  
If Beasts are stubborn, and won't take direction  
From th' Masters hand they must receive correction.  
If echoes don't repeat our voices o'er,  
Wee'll style them Mutes, and speak to them no more.  
And thus you see each thing observes a Rule,  
The Sun, the Stars, the echo, Horse and Mule.  
And when they won't be to a rule confined,  
They're punished according to their kind.  
And doth he less deserve a prison, then they  
Correction, when they from their orders stray?  
Imprisonment is proper to a lust:  
And who so fowles his Coat must have it brushed.  
pain commonly accompanies a halt,  
A prison is the sequel of a fault.  
What bore he there for to perfume the place,  
Himself, his wife, or any of his Race?  
Or carried he the Church's prayers in's breast,  
Such sweets as these, might have perfumed that Nest,  
For private prayers bear but an incense small,  
But public ones do carry most of all  
'tis questioned then, if he'd there longer stood,  
Whither he had not done more hurt then good.  
For had those Newgate-birds observed his traces  
theyed every one been turned out of their places.  
And being past for breaking Law, might fly,  
Escape( as He) for non-conformity.  
His lying-in called his wife to the Bet  
And so her hungry stomach well did get,  
He Her did feed, she him again did nurse,  
She got her belly full, and he the purse.  
And since you judge 't a mercy great, and free  
I wish you all such lying in as He  
And I shall envy 〈◇〉, then you our p●… ces,  
The Bishops ornaments, or richer faces.  
But tell( my Lords) how you such faces got?  
What do rich faces fall to you by lot?  
Or came they from Jack Presbyters cutting tricks,  
Who found such Shavers for your bishoprics?  
Or are they rich compared to their pinched jaws,  
Whose narrow Conscience cries oh! at our Laws?  
And can't comform: for why? it is a fault:  
'twill make their tender spirit limp and halt.  
At what command then pray( Sir) will you fall?  
I w●… h you do not stumble o'er them all.  
Th●… r faces are not( as yours) rich or known  
By ●… at which properly is not their own  
Th●… 've not so big a swallow, as your lust  
W●… ch strains at their Lawn sleeves, and eat their dust.  
Th●… can't with conscience consume a Nation,  
A●… live on others rights by sequestration.  
Th●… cannot frame a pious gloss to rant,  
A●… kill the King by th'force of Covenant.  
N●… devour steeples, as you did the flock,  
Y●… neither spared the fleece, nor yet the stock,  
B●… ●onsum'd all, forced Pastors from their sold,  
A●… Churches unto private uses sold  
M●… king the steeples look like empty sockets.  
A●… putting up the means into your pockets.  
Pre●ending highly to most greedy raptures  
Ea●… th' Contents, and laid aside the Chapters  
Ruining all, to build your Babel high  
As if you meant a Gygantomachy  
To merit by injustice, and by odds  
To go to heaven, and there displace the gods.  
And shall Smeck's Egypt Tyranny be a Law?  
Who kept the Brick themselves, left us the straw.  
And must our Church then lean upon a Crutch?  
We love their grace, but do their greatness grudge.  
Bishops look to't old Smeck is still alive,  
And, in him here, stands representative,  
Complains of wrong, and yet behold the b- lest- east  
By's keeping up a while is much increased  
Thus the Body natural doth often fret  
Its own estate, that so the when may get.  
As for his preaching when that he was dead,  
So once did speak friar Bacons brazen head.  
Time is, when thou a non-conformist art,  
And sleepest, when thou shouldst answer to thy part.  
Time was, when thou didst once comform to me,  
And study'st how to make me echo thee  
Time is to come, when if thou on me call,  
I'll be to thee a head caconical.  
Which being said, the Head did bow and fall,  
Humbled itself, and spake no more at all,  
With that the sluggard straightway did arise,  
Instead of reverencing, did it despise.  
Strongly affirmed, that the head set up for merit  
Was possessed thoroughly with an evil spirit.  
And that the Priests that were by It elected,  
Were drunkards all, and Popishly affencted,  
Suspend it then: for th' Devil doth in't speak,  
Condemn its follow'rs, and the head lets break.  
But stay, thou man of tongue: what will you rave,  
And ne're leave railing at us in your grave?  
Uncannon'd crime, pride grown, are you so far  
From rule, that your dust turns irregular?  
A Presbyterian 〈◇〉 most strongly draws  
ist crime caconical to break our Laws?  
What is't your virtue for to make a rent  
In State, and carp at the Church-government?  
Now for our stealing Sermons, so you bawl,  
That 'tis with us a crime caconical.  
But is't forgot, that you our lands did lurch?  
'tis your crime Classical to rob the Church.  
We th' ancient Father's words do sometimes city,  
To give unto our Doctrine greater light.  
But they're unpriviledg'd with you, no pledge,  
'Cause they condemn your pride, and sacrilege.  
Of what stuff then is made your pulpit prose?  
Of so much of a Presbyters Hum; or Nose.  
A novel Writer with th' Assemblies Note,  
Considered, as strained through your throat,  
Stands for as good Divinity with you,  
As any of the Father's Writings do.  
He that our sermons reads, in them o'relooks  
Seas of divinity, yours shallow brooks.  
A modern blast, blowing the Assemblies fire,  
A pack of them being burnt will stame the higher.  
'tis fit, words, that were darker in your breath,  
Should become true Enlightners at their death.  
And since they serve for nought, but to provoke  
Should turn to vapours, and possess a smoke.  
Now to conclude, I wish you all your due,  
Such Bishops as the Gout is unto you.  
For Non-Conformists heretofore were known  
To be most dreadful Drawers from the Crown.  
Old Smecks proud Foot did claim the highest Seat,  
Thence th' Presbyterian toes did swell so great.  
They are with sturdy humours puffed and grown  
The greater they, the weaker is the Crown,  
Let's then agree to bring their proud flesh down.  
Starve their high humours to a humiliation  
And bring their greatness low by deprivation.  
And thus the Foot, and Toes may loose their pain,  
And the Crown Mitr'd may its own regain.