Iter Boreal 2, Body
Mr. 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,
As thou my WILD while thou doſt lye
Huddled up in thy privacy,
And only now and then doſt ſend
A Letter to thy private Friend;
Take once again thy Lyre, and ſo
Let 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 Lumbardy;
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 our great Pan, whoſe care did keep
The pleaſent Shepherds and their Sheep?
Is this a time with wanton ſtrains
To whiſtle forth the Nymphs and Swains
To ſport amd 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 Angles voices choake,
And make tears big enough, to vent
ſears 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 Qnire,
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-broken 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
It 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 the Furies likewiſe are.
Nor would I have you wonder why
Our Poets all amort do lye,
When Claret and Canary ceaſe,
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.
Vintnars and Poets fall together,
If once the lvey-Garland wither.
Sweet Cowly thought (as well he might)
He ſhould hrve 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 brows adorns.
He to Pernaſs. bears no good will,
Becanſe it proves a horned hill.
The very thoughts whereof I dread
Will ne're be got out of his head.
Gondebert's ſilent, 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 help to ſave one Capital;
His love to Love then made him fear
His neck, not brow, a Wreath ſhould wear.
Next he did one a Loyal ſtring
His Georgicks and his Carols ſing;
But now becauſe he cannot toot
To Organtunes, he's made a mute;
And though alive, condemn'd to death;
Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath;
Although perſum'd and hot does come,
To blow wind in a dead mans bumb;
Yet as a gteateful 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 and 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 and 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 Plauge his made
And, Sampſon-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?
That if Heav'ns 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, what's 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 Days 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 Muſitian 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 Paul's Quire.
Say we not well, Agues 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 Lyceus 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 no 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 Pedeſtal;
Then we ſhall ſee thee, ſtanding on one foot,
Practiſe worſe tunes than Organs ever toot.
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 Furi…s on her with ha-loo.
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis juſt upon her;
Had Dina kept at home, ſhee'd ſav'd her Honor.
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 and 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 Denhams has ſo fouly bin betray'd,
And his Incloſure 'gainſt his will ſurvey'd:
May he recover all his Wits and more,
And with ſuch keen Iambricks brand the Whore,
That all may dread it worſe then 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 ſcater 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 then in a Jeſt:
Nor would I that in tenderneſs to me
Thou ſhoulſt 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 Sunday Pudden,
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 maieſt yet (at laſt) 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 meaſure's larg… 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 inclin'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 had but half a glaſs I doubt.
Beſides the drink is ſmall, you've chang'd your gill,
I wiſh you'd kept 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 prethee 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 bofore 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 ſubtil 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 thyne 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 kil'd 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, north' 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 ſhore of Converts bring,
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.