Poor Robbin's Parley with D R. WILDE, OR, Reflections on The HƲMBLE THANKS for His Majesties Declaration FOR Liberty of CONSCIENCE.
NOW that the Dust (Sir!) pretty well is laid
which by your
Capering you lately made.
When several
Poetasters of the times,
Run out ha-loo to
Bull-bait your bold rimes,
Chatt'ring at you as Troops of smaller Fowl,
Are wont against
(Minerva's bird) the Owl;
And your late
Tipsi'd muse ('tis hop'd again,
Has after
this large cast settled her Brain.
Vouchsafe t'admit your Brother to your sight,
Who yet comes more to
parley then to
fight.
When first the
Hawkers Baul'd i'th streets
Wild's name,
A
lickorish longing to my pallate came;
A
Feast of wit I look'd for, but, alas!
The meat smelt
strong, and too much
sawce there was,
The Northern March, who would not grieve to see't,
Forc'd to claim
kindred with a
Ballad-sheet?
Methoughts it could not be,
Wild's noble vain,
Should
dwindle thus into a
Dogg'rel strain,
Whose Muse of yore did on a
Loyal string,
Triumphant
Georgicks, and brave
Carols sing,
His Language
flowing, and his fancies
fine,
Rich as his
face, and sparkling as his
wine
That he should now in
hobbling Meetre creep,
That (like his Sermons) only invites to
sleep.
But I' le not rob you of the glory due
Unto this
Doughty Feat, on second view
I find there's cause to guess (Sir!) 't may be you.
Who but a
Doctor skill'd in all the Arts,
To mince a Text in
four and Twenty parts,
So
apily could Commence his
humble Thanks,
With
Threescore Lines about Star-Readers pranks,
With Tales of
pimping Cuckolds, picking Fobs,
Going to Stool, and such grave witty Bobs,
Upon your
Priesthood tell us Sir; of late
Have you not
Exercised nigh
Billingsgate?
We hereby find without a figure cast,
That still your
Wild Phanatick Freaks do last,
The
Dragons Tail to the
Horoscope doth cling,
And in your mouth lies its Invenom'd sting,
Which makes you
Hiss at Reverend
Prelates thus,
And seek once more to start,
the old lusty Puss.
'Cause you have got your rambling
Libertye,
So great, So vniversal and so free
Must
sacred Functions tast your
Railleree.
Must you go
dream, and wish the Rotchet may,
To the Lay-Elders
Motley Coat give way?
The lofty
Miter to the
Blew-bonnet vail,
And grave
Cassock to curtail'd
Jump strike sail;
Shall
Wild-boars that not long since trampled down
Our thriving
Ʋines, and crusht them on the ground?
Now
d
[...]ess our Vineyards, or they feed our
Flock
Who brought our
Royal Shepherd to the Block?
No, let such
Ʋultures Lurk in
Bushes Cold,
Whilst still our
Loyal Swans their
Steeples hold;
But tell me
Wild! Is't not a
Bull, or worse,
We shall ha'th
milk, yet you would fain be
Nurse?
'Tis plain you mean to
starve the little brood,
Or (what some fear) would bring them up with blood;
You'd have all
Joyn, even the Quakers too,
(Insects that first
crawl'd out upon's from you)
And yet each Line betrays your curs'd intent,
Is only old
Divisions to foment,
To scoff at Clergy-Men of all degrees,
And
saucily to Stile them
Judases
Is sure t'
Abuse this Act of
Grace, the
King
Indulg'd your
Preaching not your
Libelling;
To try your
Tempers was his Royal will,
And you'r but on your
good Behaviou
[...]s still;
Since your long
Silenc'd Tongues again set free,
And
gowty Toes to have their libertye,
Methinks henceforth they should in
Pulpits prance,
And not thus
wantonly in Sonnets Dance;
Fie! Fie! A
Minister and
Lampoon! give'ore
Here's other fish to fry, play the fool no more
In
Rhime, but now begin on
the other Score.
Hark how the
Thickscull'd Rams of your Fold bleat,
Away then with your
Pipe, and give them
meat;
The
kinder Sisters too, come thronging round,
From
Theeving-Lane, White-Chappel, Horsly-down;
Whose
free Benevolence more Treasure brings
Then all our
Tythes and
Easter-offerings;
Besides their
Loving zeal's so great some say,
They know how to oblige another way;
Up,
precious Man! then with a
melting Tone,
A pious
Goggle, and Counterfeit grone,
With tedious
prayers, holy sayings
abus'd,
Good words forty times to no purpose us'd;
Strange
Raptures, and Face
wrinckled as if there
The
Gospel were Transcrib'd in
Character;
Hold forth, till not one
Handkerchief's left dry,
But all do
weep, though not
one Soul knows why;
By such your
well known Arts, thou'lt get o'th sudden,
Good
Wine, good
Candles, good refreshing
Pudden;
And for
Tyth-piggs the
Curate may'st Defie,
Since all the
Sows belong unto thy
Stye.
POOR ROBIN.
LONDON, Printed Anno Dom. 1672: