A DIALOGUE Between DEATH AND Doctor ROBERT WYLD, Who Dyed lately of an APOPLEXY.
D.
NO
Roring Christmas shalt Thou keep, now
Rore
Bold Wit! W. Oh! oh! Hhohh! Well! I'le cry no more,
Alas, it is for
Thee, not
Me, to
Rore.
A
Deadly Blow! But where's thy
Sting? There lies
The
King of
Terrors cow'd out! In Sacrifice
(An
Eucharist)
Lord, take this
Soul to Thee,
By
Death Thou hast
slain Death, Redeemed Me.
Grave, take the
Carcass, at the
reck'ning Day
With
Interest the
Principal repay.
Take
Worms meat (they'l scarce lick the
punched Face,)
Bring't up in
Glory, though sown in
Disgrace,
In never-fading
Beauty it shall rise,
And be transplanted int' yon Paradise.)
They'l
Digg the
Kernels out (the
Eyes) Digg on!
One
Breakfast makes the Head a
Skeleton.
They'l
tease the Hands, and Toes, and Paunch (their Fence)
Intolerable
Pains, have
numb'd all Sense.
'Twas not
Seer Sheldon, when he turn'd
Me out,
Did Me perplex; no, it was
Bishop Gout.
Death did me
vex and
terrifie much less,
I'le now be gone out of his
Diocess.
I
con you Thanks.
Bish. Gout proceeded on,
You granted me a
Prohibition.
Adieu, my Lord.
D. I'm but a
Pursivant,
To th' Court you to conduct, by
Heaven sent.
W.
I liv'd a
Martyr all my Dayes, now I,
In flaming Spices, like a
Phoenix, Dy.
My
Heart bleeds for the
Church and
State, I faint,
Take of my
Cordial, Surviving
Saint.
Proud
Babel Reels, it Totters, it will
Fall,
As sure as
Lambeth stands against
White-Hall.
Come
Seraphims, and bear this Soul above,
Impatient to see her
Vines, her
Love.
One Stroke, with all the
Clusters, Lop'd the
Vine,
One
chop'd off
Love. Ha, ha! their Lot is
Mine.
They were so quick at Work, their
Master's Voice
Soon call'd them off;
Into your Master's Joyes.
More
Blessed Sight I'le see, ('Twill satisfie)
The
Glorious, Ever-blessed Trinity.
Whom I
Ador'd and
Lov'd sometimes,
Him I
For
ev'r will
Love, Admire, and
Glorifie;
So, so, I'll spend a Blest Eternity,
In everlasting Love, Delights and Joy.
Hal—Le—Lu—Jah.
Alas!
Poor Scholar, hast thou felt the Stroke
Of matchless Death? Are all thine
Heart-strings broke?
Who'l sing thine
Iter Empyraeum? I
After thy
Blood-suck send this
Hue and
Cry.
Great
Wyld is slain!
Slain! Let this Shreek fly round
Till Hills, and Dales, and Rocks, and Shores rebound,
Unto
Pale Pyrene, and from thence go on
Over
Parnassus unto
Helicon.
Raise up the
sluggish Sisters, Three times
Three,
In Lamentations Drop
one Elegie.
Streams Ever-flowing from each Muses Eye
May
Spring a
Fountain, now their
Well is
Dry.
Tagus and
Ganges will astonish'd be,
And all th'
Antipodes as well as We.
Who slew the Muses Darling, of Mankind
The
Choice Delights? Search out until you find.
Who was't
kill'd the
Divine? Who
slew the
Poet?
Eccho.
Eat! What Nimble Chaps, what
Cormorant was he
Could
eat up
Wyld? Might not he
poyson'd be?
Who
poyson'd Wild? Wakeman with all his
Main
Could not get Sacred
Charles out of his
Wain.
He pawn'd his
Skill, though
Justice might not
spy,
A
Plaister to the
Fist affects the
Eye.
'Twas
Death (that
Jesuit) so greedy grown
It
chapt up
Robert, and let
George alone.
Rome's Emissary
Leeches, so fine
bred,
Won't touch
Posteriors, they chap at th'
Head.
AN EPITAPH.
HEre lies
Poor Robin, most enriched one
With
Nature's Dowre,
Graces large Portion.
Nature brought
Reason, Prudence, Eloquence,
And
Magnanimity, Munificence,
Courage and
Constancy, and Matchless
Wit.
Grace Him adorn'd with
Faith, and
Hope, and
Love,
That Saints below he might excell, above
With
Patience, in none admired more;
Nature and
Grace on him laid out their Store.
Rome's Plot to strangle
Justicein
Godfrey,
Hell's was; in
Wild, to choak
Divinity.
Here lies the
Poet, here lies
Poetry,
Here's the
Divine, here lies
Divinity.
Ah
Fools! an inexhausted
Springdoth Lye,
Justice in
Charles, in
God, Theology.
London, Printed in the Year 1679.