An Answer For Mr. Calamie to a POEM Congratulating his imprisonment in NEVV-GATE. Intituled by Robert Wilde. D.D. Author of the late Iter Boreale.
‘Sic. partis componere Magna.’
THE place your
Worship, doth congratulate,
Now void, doth for a new
Incumbent wait.
I know none fitter, then your self, to take it:
So pure a wit, a gainfull place, will make it.
Let me perswade you, Begg the Presentation;
And I shall tell you, for your consolation,
What your own heart could wish, here you shall finde
A pack of Auditors, will fit your mind:
Conformists all, of the right stamp
Cavalliers,
Whose prayers are oathes, and whose Religion Jeers.
Abuse the
Saints sufficiently, and then,
You'l hear them all devoutly swear Amen.
You need not study much, nor break your brains:
There that is valued best, that costs least pains:
Stol'n Ware, or so; they love with all their heart,
If't be but done, as you can do't, with art.
Quote
Guznian, and the Spanish
Lazarill:
Among the rest, let these be chiefest still:
Een-Johnson's playes with other moddern wits.
And Aulicus; These you may quote by fits:
And read sometimes, for it will much avail yee,
A piece, out of your
Iter Boreale.
Be not asham'd, of this advice; I tell you;
Your Betters have done so, that far excel you.
The
Saints did once, as you know well enough,
Fill up their Sermons with
Diurnall stuffe.
'Twas then well lik't. But oh the change of
Fates!
Should we but do so now, they'd break our pates.
St. Peter's Chair, you need not envy mee:
Give me
Sir John's: this other your's shall be.
St. Peter's
Chair, was of dull Iron oare:
Yet he wrought miracle's: this will work more!
I'le tell you softly, between you and I,
The
godly have, a secret
Deitie:
Though for to wrong him, they are somewhat shy;
Because, the
weak will call't
Idolatry.
Your long
Indictment, is not worth a straw:
'Tis draw 'gainst one, you say is
dead in Law;
And who compar'd with you, may seem at most,
To be some
Skelleton, or starv'ling
Ghost.
But see the rage of those,
Poetique Knaves!
They will not let us rest, within our graves!
Then for the matter, of your accusation,
'Tis so absurd; it needs no confutation.
It is for
stealing hearts; by this is mean't,
A Robbing of the party by consent.
If this be
Felony, Good-sir, take heed!
For this will prove a dangerous
theft indeed,
When you take
tithes, and of men's monies fob them;
(Though by consent) They may cry out, you rob them.
I like your,
Allegory, of
Bishop Gout;
And so do others too, I make no doubt.
Some
Presbyterian Bishop 'tis I Guesse;
For this is painfull, in his
Diocesse.
What! though he make you grieve; 'tis for your good:
His
visitations, stir your
idle blood.
God sends such
visiters, for
Lazy droans:
Makes them unwilling, preach with sobbs, and groanes.
Hee'l teach you too, without the
Common-Prayer,
To cry,
Ah! Lord! thy rotten Servant spare!
Would you be free, from
Bishop Gouts vexation?
I'le teach you how by the best observation.
Preach much but study little; for 'tis ease,
And idle sitting, that breed's this disease.
Leave drinking sack; get Carosses for your lungs;
And this will help you, to a thousand tongues.
Preach, Preach, with all the noise, and vehemence you can!
Till you become some megger
Puritan:
Subdue your pamp'red flesh, with thinner diet;
And then, I'le promise you, you shall be quiet,
From
Bishop Gout, and from
Dean Dropsy too;
They'l shun you then, as
Lawyers, poor folkes do.
But to your praise, i'le speak it, I protest!
Y'have prov'd
Episcopacy, 'bove all, the best;
That they have
Jus-Divinum, to their places;
You here have clearly prov'd it to their faces:
Now my
Lord Gout, may with good grace and sense,
Writ
Bishop, by
Divine providence.
For 'twas not man, but God gave him
Commission;
And fixt in your precinct, his
jurisdiction.
And may his Government prove somewhat milde!
Or else I fear 'twill make the Doctor
Wilde.
But more then this; you have prov'd learnedly;
Far above others, their
Antiquity:
As old as Father
Noah, I Divine:
Who planted first, the
Gont-producing Vine.
Thus you have stopt, the mouthes of
peevish sects;
And cleer'd the question, in despite of
Smects.
Much joy have you, with your
Diocesan!
May he nere meet, with any
Puritan.
Or Lawless
Schismatiques! but make them bow,
To his commands! or plague them! you know how.
May he find none, where ere he
Domineers;
But good
conformists honest
Cavalliers!
But Sir! there's yet one scruple left behind;
Which not a litle, doth perplex my mind.
The narrow
Diocesse, you do al ot,
Unto your
Bishop doth not any jot.
Advance your cause; but for all this you may,
Be counted one, of th'
Independ ent way.
No further then your self, your
Bishop reaches:
This every
Quaker and
Phanatick teaches.
'Tis Large enough, (you'l say) for every man,
A little world! his Soul
Diocesan!
Sir! this is
Popery; I'le make it plain!
An Universall
Bishop, you ordain!
But now let's see, where all this
sickness lies!
You, if you can, A
remedy devise
When
States shall breed, more learned, active Spirits,
Then they can keep or answer to their merits;
You must not think, they'l
starve or
beggar be,
If by their Rhet'rick, they can earn a Fee.
Whil'st
Ideots, Women, Hawkes and Hounds devour:
The fattest
tithes, once the poor
Churches Dower.
Whil'st the
impropriate Lord, will not consent,
To yeild his needy vicar,
Ten per cent;
You must not think it strange, if
discontents,
Work in the Church and State such
fatall rents;
And that compell'd men seek
Benevolence,
From better
Christians honest
Citizens.
Let this be Remedied, all
Schismes will fail,
And none will then presume to write or raile.
Who so doth otherwise, the
Symptomes cures;
But not the
Malady: that still endures.
We Love the
King, and would his
love deserve,
If
Preaching will not; then our
pray'rs must serve!
Make you the empty air, wit Clamours ring.
Our Prayers shall reach to heaven!
God Save the King!
FINIS.
London Printed in the Year 1663.