Iter Boreal 2, Poem 18
THE GRATEFUL NON-CONFORMIST: OR, Return of Thanks to Sir J. B. Knight who ſent the Author Ten CROWNS 1665.
TEn Crowns at once! and to one man! and h…
As deſpicable as bad Poets be!
Who ſcarce has Wit (if you require the ſame)
To make an Anagram upon your Name!
Or to out-rime a Barber, or prepare
An Epitaph to ſerve a Quinbrough Mayer!
A limping Levite! who ſcarce in his prime
Could woe an Abigal, or ſay Grace in rhime!
Ten Crowns to ſuch a Thing! Friend, 'tis a do…
Able to raiſe dead Ben, or Davenant's Noſe;
Able to make a Courtier prove a Friend,
And more then all of them in Victuals ſpend.
This free, free-Parliament, whoſe gift doth ſou…
Full five and twenty hundred thouſand pound:
You have out-done them, for yours was your own,
And ſome of it ſhall laſt when theirs is gon.
Ten Crowns at once! and now at ſuch a time,
When Love to ſuch as I am, is a Crime
Greater then his Recorded in Jane Shore,
Who gave but one poor loaf to the ſtarv'd Whore.
What, now to help a Non-Conformiſt! Now
When Miniſters are broke that will not bow!
When 'tis to be unbleſt to be ungirt!
To wear no Surplice, doth deſerve no ſhirt:
No Broth, no Meat; no Service, no Protection;
No Croſs, no Coin; no Collect, no Collection!
You are a daring Knight, thus to be kind;
If truſty Roger get it in the wind
Hee'l ſmell a Plot, a Presbyterian Plot,
Eſpecially for what you gave the Scot!
And if the Spiritual Court take fire from Crack,
They'l clap a Pariter upon your back:
Shall make you ſhrug, as if you wore the Collar
Of a Caſhier'd Red-coat, or poor Scholar.
What will you plead, Sir, if they put you to't?
Was it the Doctor, or the Knight did do't?
Did you as Doctor, flux ſome Uſurer?
And with your quick, did his dull Silver ſtir?
Or did your Zeal, you a Knight-Templer make,
To give the Church the booties you ſhould take?
Or was it your deſire to beg Applauſe?
Or ſhew affection to the good old Cauſe?
Was't to feed Faction, or uphold the ſtickle
Betwixt the old Church and new Conventicle?
No, none of theſe, but I have hit the thing,
It was becauſe you knew I lov'd the King.
Ten Crowns at once! Sir you'l ſuſpected be
For no good Proteſtant, you are ſo free.
So much at once! ſure you ne'r gave before,
Or elſe, I doubt, mean to do ſo no more.
This is enough to make a man proteſt
Religio Medici to be the beſt.
The Chriſtians, for whoſe ſakes we are undone,
Would have cry'd out, oh! 'tis too much for one
Either to give or take! what needs this waſt?
Oh, how they love to have us keep a Faſt!
Five private Meetings, (where at each, four men
In black coats, and white caps, (you'l call them then
A teem of Miniſters) have tug'd all day,
Deſerving Provender, but ſcarce got hey;
Where I my ſelf have drawn my part ſome hours,
Have not afforded ſuch return as yours.
I'de wiſh them watch, and keep me ſober ſtill;
Not want of guilt in them, nor want of will
In me, but want of Wine does make me lame,
Or elſe I'de ſacrifice them to the flame
Of a high blazing Satyr. Here's a man
Who ne'r pretended at your rates, yet can
More freely feed us, with Wine and good Diſhes,
Then they (yet that's their alms) with ſighs and wiſhes
Oh, for a Rapture! how ſhall I deſcribe
The love of thouſands to their Reading Tribe!
Who ſo maintaind them, when they loſt their places
They did not looſe one pimple from their faces;
But after all, full fraught with fleſh and flaggon,
Came forth like Monks, or Prieſts of Bel & Dragon
One would have judg'd by their high looks & ſmels
They had been kept in Cellars, not in Cells:
Where they grew big and batten'd; without doubt
Some that went Firkins in, came Hogs heads out.
But ours in two years time are skin and bones,
And look like Gran-dames, or old Apple Johns:
One Lazarus amongſt us was too much,
But ere't be long we all ſhal… look like ſuch;
And when that comes to paſs, the world ſhall ſee,
Who are the Ghoſtly Fathers, they or we;
And then our bellies (without better fare)
Will be as empty as their Noddles are:
Though we are ſilent, our guts will not be ſo,
But make a Conventicle as they go:
Poor Colon peace, and ceaſe thy croking din,
Thou art condemn'd to be a Chitterlin.
N…ggardly Puritans! bluſh at the odds
Betwixt the Bonners and the meagre Dodds;
You give your Drink in Thimbles, they in Bowls,
Your Church is poor St. Faiths and theirs is Pauls;
And whilſt you Prieſts and Altars do deſpiſe,
Your ſelves prove Prieſts, and we your Sacrifice.
But why do I permit my Muſe to whine?
I wiſh my Brethren all ſuch cheeks as mine,
And thoſe that wiſh us well, ſuch hearts as thine,
My Noble Baber, I have choſen you
For my Phyſitian, and my Champion too;
Give me but ſometimes ſuch a doſe, and I
Will ne'r wiſh other Cordial till I die,
And then Proclaim you a moſt Valiant Knight,
(Shew but ſuch Mettle) though you never Fight.