YOVR SERVANT SIR, OR Ralpho to Hudibras Descanting on Wilds Poetry.

LOe, now comes he, that came not yet,
Who cares not though his Master fret;
As Shoomaker so hath Translator,
In stirrup Foot; so Imitator
Of Hudibras is little Ralph,
But servant hath more wit bit'h half.
This Doughty Knight by Puny Squire
Out done is, as a simple Syre
Is by his wiser Son surpassed,
So much doth Ralph exceed this rash head,
As doth the Quiristers Sol fa-la-mi,
Old Hopkins Rhimes when sung by Calamy.
Brave Squire against proud Knight doth vant,
And proves as stout a Combatant,
With Oberon as was Pig-wiggin
Whose head was arm'd with Achorn Piggin:
Here may be seen, as in a Glass,
The Mushrom wit of Hudibras,
Who can't avoid in best of writing
Such stinking stuffe as that of sh—
The Squire hath got the quicker sight
Mounted on back of Giant-Knight.
HAh, are ye come? Welcome Sir Hudibras,
For all you are my Master, y' are an Ass.
Parturient Montes sith you make a blunder,
Not in Wild Squibs, but Lightning joynd with Thunder,
I question if you are as you pretend
Unto the Bishops and the Church, a friend,
For by those words a man that hath no eyes,
May plainly see you do Hiperbolize:
A Bishop's calmly urgent, makes no stir,
Nor Thumps the Cushion like a Presbyter,
He spits no fire, nor Wildly throws about
Hell and Damnation amongst the rout;
Flint breaks on Pillows: Tis not Pulpit Thunder
But mild perswasion melts mens hearts asunder.
Sugar and Hony excelleth gall or Verjuice,
A Barnabas wins more then Boanerges:
Such fiery Zealots by their Frantick fits
Drive others (like themselves) besides their wits.
You play with th' Organs, and their virtue show,
As if you thought there were no Devil below:
After which your more sordid stile is held on,
(Sans Reverence to the name of Paules or Sh [...]ldon)
Gainst Calamy, by Metaphor descrying
Your malice to a man that lies a dying,
To kick a worm what glory may be found?
That's dead in Law, and prostrate on the ground,
Is he a bird of prey ? (buzzard or Kite)
Mute had been better far then plainly sh—
See how the Term with his condition sutes,
Preachers when silenc't, what are they but Mutes?
Thus do I (like your self) quibble at quicquid
In Buccham venerit, or Mute or liquid:
Not that I hate you, yet you must not think
That Wits whole Mass is lodged in the chinck
Of your own Scull, Sir, but that Ralph your man
Hath somewhat likewise in the little pan
Of's Pe [...]i [...] [...]i [...]m is not such an Ass
As still to be outvi'd by Hudibras.
To wake the Bishops you do make a Roare,
And tell them nought but what they knew before.
How they should be a sleep I much do wonder,
Since you compare them unto fire and Thunder,
Though what you say of Calamy be true,
Yet tis not meet to lance old sores a new,
To write a crime thats past on th'Actors Front,
Whilst that Amnestia remains upon't.
The King hath pardon'd such, then why should we
Stir up again their stinking memory?
But if they Act again those faults a new,
Then Dun and Devil (a Gods name) take your due.
Now leave we Calamy, and come to trace
Thee Hudibras throughout thy Wild-goose Chase,
In other manner then doth True de Case,
Who least he should be thought for to transgress
Ends ( Poetaster-like) The King God bless
Whose sacred name should not be made a Sallad
For Bread and Butter, such mean fare's a Ballad.
And here I must confess that Wild hath hit
On sev'ral pritty passages of wit;
Although your Knight-ship's pleas'd at's lines to flout,
Saying his Verses (like him) have the Gout:
The difference twixt you both is not a pin,
Squibbing and Squirting (Sir) are neer a kin.
Tis true, his rhimes too much abusive bee,
But thine's the more Profaner Ribaldry;
In down right words he Jerks at Calamy,
Thou at the Prelates by an Irony:
Two Cocks well matcht, for his Invention sprung
From Tap and Spigot, thine flows from the bung.
His Verse is vain enough, since wanton lines
Become Knights Errant, rather then Divines,
Being shrewdly vext for that he cannot handle
In Church a Text, he dies like snuff of Candle;
Much discontented since that none will mind him
And being dead, hath left a stinck behind him.
But Hudibras tis strange what should thee move
To take i'th Ashes of deceased Love;
That son of Thunder by some men admir'd,
Vollies whereof were heard when he expir'd.
Thy Rav'nous Muse too, wanting better Cates
Must feed on Peters Quarters ore the Gates.
Such Darts gainst their dead Carcasses being hurld,
May chance to vex 'em in the other world;
And cause their Ghosts to haunt thee in the night,
Enough to scare a poor Romantick Knight
Out of his wits, if such a thing should be
Thou wouldst be rob'd of all thy Poetry:
And if thy rhiming faculty once fail
Thou'lt shortly after die for want of Ale.
Or if thou dost hold on to vex Wild thus,
Thou'lt make him furious as Archilocus,
Whose keen Iambicks may thy credit blast.
And force thee through a Rope to breath thy last.

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