A WIPE for ITER-BOREALE WILDE: OR, An Infallible Cure for the Gout.
GOUT! I conjure thee by the pow'rful names
Of
Monk and
Brown, and their victorious fames,
To tell me (speak no doubt thou canst: speak, come,
Gout so called in his Letter to
Calamy.
A
Presbyterian Bishop can't be dumb)Why didst thou shackle the Poetick feet
Of thy lov'd Master, when it was most meet
They should be jogging. Can
Monk and
Brown die,
And
Wild be tame? not write an Elegie?
Gout! thou'rt ingrateful: Hast so soon forgot
Who made thee Bishop, did he make thee sot?
See Presbyterian Humility;
Ev'n their Distempers Governors must be,
A Gout install'd a Bishop! hence we know
Who you had rather should be at your toe.
If thou art Bishop, Gout, speak, what dost ail?
Bishops the Churches loss use to bewail.
Gout! keep thy place; if thou canst live at ease:
Pity a Bishop should leave's Diocess.
Monk, Brown die unlamented! sad disasters!
See, see how Presbyterians love their Masters:
You that at Publick Triumphs sowrely look,
That in your faces ev'n without a book,
A Let'ny may be read; dare you not cry
Good Lord deliver's when such men do dy?
That Conventicles must go down 'tis signe,
When Conventiclers have forgot to whine.
Shall
Englands Trusty, Loyal General dye?
And go to's grave without a single sigh?
When
Calamy, Rebellious Trump'ter shall
Whole volleys have discharg'd at's Funeral:
This seems not fair play,
Wild, ev'n to us boyes,
But you like us love them that make most noise.
Hold! Hold! this is not all: this proud withstander
Can't chuse but hate
Monk 'cause he was Commander
Stay furious Muse: Let's breath a little; come,
We'll in again by-th' help of
Haw or
Hum.
Hum, Haw, nay stay, what shall we hold forth next?
We'll keep t'our business, though we leave our Text.
But to the matter:
Wild 'tis wisely done,
No people yet ador'd the setting Sun.
To Heath'nish customs Saints cannot conform,
When we are calmest, then's their Cue to storm.
We applaud men when they go off the stage;
Witness Iter Boreale.
They when they enter, slighly to engageThem to their party: Such perverse Comedians
Are all these Crab-like, cross-grain'd Presbyterians.
Monk!
Iter Boreale.
that one Monosyllable out shines
Plantagenets bright name, and
Constantines.
They have the art to time things: this was wrote
When
George came newly out of th' arms o'th' Scot.
Oh then
Wild thought for Kirk he would declare,
And thought he should b' a niggard did he spare:
But mark the end,
George proves an honest man,
And's hated by this Presbyterian.
For did he love him, now's a time to show it,
Monk's death's a subject that can make a Poet:
Wild! of that
Syllable why now ne're a
word,
The reason's plain; Division it abhorr'd.
If a recanting Penitent but part
With's errors, saying, Mines a broken heart;
'Gainst him
Wild writes: Why?
Lee doth hardnes want,
He can't be precious if no Adamant.
If
George deserv'd no Elegie▪ from thee,
Yet shall the Dutchess thus rewarded be▪
She that from top to toe thee cloath'd; is't meet
Thou shouldst not give her one poor winding-sheet?
Canst not be
Wild, but thou't be also rude?
See (people) Presbyterian Gratitude.
But stay, the Conscientious Sister-hood
Perhaps do say, Sweet Doctor't cann't be good,
For to revive a dead
Monks memory,
We think it savours much of Popery.
Most Sister-like advice! Are these your fears?
Yet sure
Brown's name sounds sweet i'th' Sectaries ears.
This
Brown's sure should in thine his Chaplain
Wild:
Hast thou thy Patron of his dues beguil'd?
A Presbyterian is the greatest cheat,
He'll not say Grace where he expects no meat.
Perhaps these petty things
Wild hath forgot:
He's thinking what
Noncon. dare swear, what not.
I dare not swear they're truly Loyal; but
When we their Swords have, I'll swear they'l not cut.
I dare not swear they love to keep the Laws,
But I dare swear they'd run to start the cause:
Had they but opportunity to do't,
And
Wild would follow, though with limping foot?
For all his Crack-f—brag:
Our King misled,
We'll bite our nails rather then scratch our head:
Or his We'll prove more Loyal, and more true,
And give to
Caesar and to God his due.
Wild, hath thy Muse no subject? doth she want one?
Let her next prophecy on Doctor
Manton.
And if he stay,
Wild, come and keep his door,
Hang Conventicles, then you'll ne're be poor.
Your City-Brethren sure will give you bub,
And there with one another you may club
For whining tones, 'gainst Bishops how to rant,
Rich Wine will make you Doctors loudly cant▪
And when guilt robs you of your sweet repose,
O'th' Solemn League and Cov'nant take a dose.
No doubt your hearts with joy it needs must fill
To think you suffer: Why? to please your will.
There read your
Iter Boreale o're,
And spell that Backward which you wrote before.
Your silence now says you dissembled then,
Yet these are the plain dealing honest men.
Wild vow you'll ne're praise man more, till you know,
Whether he'll live and dye your Friend or Foe.
I. M.
LONDON, Printed in the YEAR, 1670.