[...]n Ingenious Contention, by way of Letter, Between Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist.
[...]Dr. Nathan Wanley
to Dr. Wild,
who was laid aside for Nonconformity.
SO the bright Taper useless burns
To private and recluded Urns.
So Pearls themselves to shels confine,
And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,
thou my
VVILD while thou dost lye
[...]uddled up in thy privacy,
[...]nd only now and then dost send
[...] Letter to thy private Friend;
[...]ake once again thy Lyre, and so
[...]et thy selected Numbers flow,
As when thy solemn Muse did prove
To sing the Funeral of Love;
Or, as when with the Trump of fame
Thou didst sound forth great
George's name,
In such a strain, as might it be,
Did speak thy self as great as he.
For while great
Cowley seeks the shade,
And
Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;
When
Davnant's weary Quill lies by,
And yeelds no more of
Lombardy;
While the sweet Virgin
Muses be
By
Wild led int' a Nunnerie;
While thus
Apollo's Priests retire,
The Females do begin t' aspire,
Pretending they have found a flaw
In great
Apollo's Salique Law;
These grasp at Lawrel, only due
To such as I have nam'd, and you.
Dr. Wild
to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley.
WHat jolly Shepherds voice is this
Would tempt me from my private bliss
After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder
Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs in fairer dayes
We sate secure, and sang the praise
Of
[...]ur great
Pan, whose care did keep
The pleasant Shepherds and their Sheep?
Is this a time with wanton strains
To whistle forth the Nymps and Swains
To sport and dance, while Wolf and Fox
Lye lurking to devour our Flocks,
And
Romes Sheep-stealers ready stand
To give them their
red letters brand?
Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son,
What th'
Plague and
Fire have lately done▪
London hath sent up such a smoke,
As may the Angels voices choak,
And make tears big enough, to vent
Tears in a deluge, to lament
The
raging fury of that
Flame,
But more of those that
made the same.
And when St.
Paul has lost his
Quire,
'Twere Sacriledge to touch my
Lyre.
None but a monster
Nero may
Over a
burning City play.
Nor would I sing, were I a
Jew,
To please a
Babylonish Crew.
Now since the time for sorrow cryes,
In this I freely temporize.
So the bright Starrs draw in their light,
When Clouds club for an ugly night.
So all the Birds of Musick sleep
On stormy dayes, and silence keep,
So frost-nipt Roses droop and fall,
Perfuming their own funerall.
So you have seen a well-tun'd
Lyre
Swelling it self with grief and ire.
In gloomy air, each heart-broke string
Its own last passing-bell doth ring.
So when
Bellona's Trumpet sounds,
Our
softer Muses Musick drownds.
Sir, by my many
soes you know
My Poetry is but
so so.
But why dost thou disdain or fear,
That
Female brows should Lawrel wear?
Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree
[...]self was made out of a
shee?
The Muses and the Graces all
We of the
Female Gender call,
And so if you have not more care,
You'l find they
Furies likewise are.
[...] would I have you wonder why
[...]s
all amort do lye,
When
Claret and
Canary cease,
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.
Vintners and
Poets fall together,
If once the
Ivy-Garland wither.
Sweet
Cowly thought (as well he might)
He should have shin'd in
Phoebus sight;
But Clouds appear'd, and he that made
Account of
Juno, found a shade;
And though on
Davids Harp he plaid,
The
evil Spirit can't be laid:
Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,
And his own Secretary proves.
Your next mans temples Lawrel scorns,
Since greater pride his brow
[...] ado
[...]ns.
He to
Pernass. bears no g
[...]d will,
Because it proves a
horned hill.
The very thoughts whereof I dread
Will ne're be got out of his head.
Gondebert's silent, I suppose,
Because his Muse sings
through the nose,
One syllable of which poor he
Did lose by an
Apocope.
Wild sayes, Kind
Wanley you'r to blame,
Amongst these
Swans his
Goose to name,
Yea though his lucky
gagling yaul
Once helpt to save one
Capital;
His
love to
Love then made him fear
His
neck, not
brow, a Wreath should wear.
Next he did on a Loyal string
His
Georgicks and his
Carols sing.
But now because he cannot toot
To
Organ tunes, he's made a
mute;
And though alive, condemn'd to death:
Therefore,
dear Sir, in vain your breath,
Although perfum'd and hot does come,
To blow wind in a
dead mans bumb;
Yet, as a grateful Legacy,
He leaves to thee his
Nunnery,
Not doubting but if need require
Thou'lt prove an
able loving Fryar.
2. Mr.
Wanley to Dr.
Wild.
WHat sullen wary Shepherds voice is this,
That won't be tempted from his private bliss,
But arbor'd up in
Eglantine, while Thunder
Threatens to rend & rive that
Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs himself in fairer dayes
Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise
Of that
great Pan, whose watchful care did
keep
At once the pleasant Shepherd & his Sheep?
Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,
And seek out
Coverts from the
scorching heat?
Is this a time for an
inglorious sloth
To hug it self, not daring to peep forth
Into the open field, while th'
crafty Fox
Lurks in the bushes to devour our
Flocks,
And
Wolves of
Romulus are grown so bold,
To fright the silly Sheep ev'n in their Fold?
Dost thou not know what
crops the
Plague has made
And,
Sampson-like,
heaps upon heaps has laid?
That if Heavens wrathful Anger thus proceed,
There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.
London has sent up such a darkning smoak,
And shall it too the Angels voices choak?
Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we
Shall never more thy publick Censers see?
'Tis
Sacriledge to rob the Church; and thence
Since you have stole your self, whats your offence?
When the
white Harvest for
more Reapers cryes,
How canst thou freely sit and
temporize?
So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,
When
Phoebus pouders all his locks with light.
So
feral Birds delight to sit alone,
Till the dayes glories are packt up and gone.
So Roses fall in
June when frosts are past,
And on dull earth lye blushing out their last
So the Musician smothers his
Sol fa,
When he's entreated or to sing or play.
So when the fierce
Bellona's Drums do beat,
Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.
And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre
Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,
And seems to shiv'r at th'
downfal of
Pauls quire.
Say we not well, A gues will have their course?
Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse
The
Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer.
That would make
Caput Mortuum the quicker.
But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,
That plump
Lycëus should grow lean this year?
Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grape-stone
Did whilom prove to poor
Anacreon?
Which of the
Muses, or the
Graces all,
Did ere for
Claret or
Canary call?
Is it not sung by the
Venetian Swain
How the brisk Wine gives
horns to the poor man?
And if you have not greater care, no doubt
You'l find the
Claret will revive your
Gout,
And then we shall hear thy
Goose-gagling yaul
Cry out for help to save thy
Pedestall;
Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,
Practise worse tunes than
Organs ever root.
This is a vain presage, thou say'st; the Dead
Have out-liv'd this and have
no Gout to dread.
But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,
Heark how the
dead mans bum does let a
fart.
When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,
'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy
bum;
To vote her of the
Babylonish Crew;
And set the
Furies on her with
ha-loo.
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;
Had
Dina kept at home, shee'd sav'd her
Honour.
But I'm
thy Son, and must corrected be;
But why then dost thou turn thy
bum to me?
Dost think thy Son so
sanguine &
insano,
To probe thee with a Fistula
in Ano.
This I should leave to any of the
Crew,
You may believe me though I were a
Jew.
And may my breath be still perfum'd, why not?
Since dead Corps smell when they begin to rot.
And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly,
That it did seem to top the very Sky;
And though he may have reason to be proud,
Instead of
Juno did imbrace a Cloud;
May he resume King
Davids Harp and play
The
Tarantul' of discontent away.
If
Denham has so fouly been betray'd,
And his
Inclosure 'gainst his will
survey'd:
May he recover all his Wits and more,
And with such keen
Iambicks brand the
Whore,
That all may dread it worse than loss of life,
To turn a Poet
frantick for his
Wife.
Poor
Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore,
It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.
Well may the
bridge be down, when Time doth meet
To press it with his
Satyr cloven-feet.
And thou with thy
Apocopes art wont
To scatter balls of thy
Wild-fire upon't.
But shall I not,
kind Wild, remember thee,
Who hast bequeath'd me such a
Legacie?
'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtile head;
Wills have no force till the
Testator's dead;
And that none can have ought by thy bequest
Till thou art better dead than in a Jest:
Nor would I that in tenderness to me
Thou shouldst suspect thine own sufficiencie;
Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed:
'Tis Incest to ascend the Fathers bed.
What though thou ownst me for thy
sanguine Child,
Yet I have not so much my
Sire of
Wild.
And thus far is thy
Fry'r able to see
His
Covent's better than thy
Nunnerie.
He's
loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,
As thou, at his decease, but while he lives
All these
good wishes, such as he can spare,
And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.
May every Knight about us, that's inclind,
Be unto thee, as Sir
John Baber, kind.
Ten Silver
Crowns let each of them send thee,
And be so paid for all in
Verse as he.
May the
poor Scholar ne're want
Sundays Pudding,
When he's not like to
preach for't
on the sudden.
May thy afflicted
Toe ne're feel the
Gout;
Or if it must, let the
Dutch have a
Rout;
That thou maist yet (at least) once more protest
That
Recipe wants no
Probatum est.
Maist thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;
May I have brains to answer it agen.
May all that are of such
good wishes sullen,
Live till their good Friends bury them in
Woollen.
Dr.
Wild to Mr.
Wanley.
HOnestly done however, though the Stuff
You sent be
course, the measures
large enough.
The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,
The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass.
But now to pledge thee I am not enclin'd,
You
Sons o'th Church are for
large draughts I find.
Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free
In sending such a
brimmer unto me,
That Sunday last, long of that frolick bout,
Thy Parish bad but
half a glass I doubt.
Besides the drink
is small, you've chang'd your
gill,
I wish you'd kept it in your
hogs-head still.
Yet, upon better thoughts,
small drink is fit
To cool the stomack, though not help the wit;
And that might be thy case: for certainly
Those
salt bits I had sent thee
made thee dry,
Or
sick, which made thee drink
small drink, and strain
To cast them undigested up again.
Twelve lines return'd the very same, that I
Must call the
Hickup, rather than
Reply;
Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread
There is some
Eccho in thine
empty head:
Or rather thou my
Cockril art, and so
The
young one learneth of the old to crow.
Nay, my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck,
I wish that
Shrovetide hazard not thy
neck.
Now prithee
Chick beware, for though I find
That thou art
right and of the
fighting kind,
Yet thou art not my
Match, and soon wilt feel
My Gout lies in my
Toe, not in my
Heel.
Take this advice before you mean to fight,
Get your
Comb cut, and leave your
treading quite.
Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,
Has skill to
clip thy wings, and
trim thy tayl;
And thereby hangs another Tayl, I find
Thy
subtile nose hath got my
breech i'th' wind.
If thou canst catch
poor farts that Prison break,
A notable
Bumbayliff thou wilt make.
Hark, hark, saist thou,
he let a fart! what though?
It breaths forth
no Sedition, Sir, I trow;
Nor is there any Statute of our Nation
That sayes, in
five miles of a
Corporation
If any
Outed-man a Fart should vent,
That you should apprehend the
Innocent.
If you so soon could smell the
Pouder-Plot,
What had you said if I had
bullets shot?
Fye man! our
mouths were stopped long ago.
And would you have us silent too
below?
But I displaid
my bum before
thine eyes
Unkindly thou saist, I say otherwise;
For there thou mightst have thy
resemblance took,
Dead mens blind cheeks do very
Wanley look.
And for the
crack it gave, that did but mind thee
To strive to leave a
good report behind thee.
As for the
gall which in your Ink appears,
That
in our Sufferings we are Volunteers;
I'le not say much, I have more wit than so,
'
Tis scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:
But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you,
to whip
Your
Brothers back which you did
help to strip:
Yet thus your Grandsire
Levi did before,
Who
kild those, whom his
Cov'nant had made sore.
And you know who they were that gave the blow,
And then cry'd,
Prophesie who smote thee so?
We durst not keep our Livings for our lives,
But
they must needs go whom the Devil drives.
Yea,
but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,
And,
would not work, in one, nor th' other keep.
I answer. No great Harvest yet appears,
I'm sure your Churches hang but
thin with ears.
And though the
Foxes breed, what need you care,
When-as your Shepherds such
Fox-catchers are.
For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cryes,
Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.
Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,
To fool thus is enough, and
Twice for thee.
Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,
When stak'd at Ticktack, soon be plaid away.
Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,
And
friendly part, as we did
friendly meet.
Yet, to requite thy
Legacy to me,
Accept this
Litany I send to thee.
May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joyn'd,
As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrin'd;
May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphear
Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;
May that blest Life credit Conformitie,
And make e'ven Puritans
to honour thee.
Maist thou to Christ such store of Converts brings,
That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.
May God love you, and you love God again;
And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.
London, Printed in the Year, 1668.