Dr Wilds Humble Thanks, Poem
Dr WILD's Humble Thanks For His MAJESTIES Gracious DECLARATION for Liberty of Conſcience, March 15. 1672.
No, not one word, can I of this Great Deed,
In Merlin, Old Mother Shipton read!
Old Tyburn take those Tychobrahe Imps,
As Silger, who would be accounted Pimps
To the Amorous Planets; they the Minute know,
When Jove did Cuckold old Amphitryo,
…en Mars and made Venus wink and glances,
Their cloſe Conjunctions, and mid-night Dances.
When coſtive Saturn goes to ſtool, and vile
Thief Mercury doth pick his Fob the while:
When Lady Luna leaks, and makes her man
Throw't out of Window into th' Ocean.
More ſubtle than the Exciſe-men here below,
What's ſpent in every Sign in Heaven they know;
Cunning Intelligencers, they will not miſs
To tell us next year, the ſucceſs of this;
They correſpond with Dutch and Engliſh Star,
As one once did with CHARLES and Oliver.
The Bankers alſo might have, had they gone,
What Planet governe'd the Exchequer, known.
Old Lilly, though he did not love to make
Any words o…'t ſaw the Engliſh take,
Five of the Smyrna Fleet, and if the Sign
Had been Aquarius, then they'd made them Nine
When Sagitarius took his aim to ſhoot
At Biſhop Coſin, he ſpyed him no doubt;
And with ſuch force the winged Arrow flew;
Inſtead of one Church Stagg he killed two;
Gloceſter and Durbam when he eſpy'd,
Let Lean and Fat go together he cry'd.
Well Wille Lilly thou knew'ſt all this as well
As I, and yet wouldſt not their Lordſhips tell.
I know thy Plea too, and muſt it allow,
PRELATES ſhould know as much of Heaven as thou:
But now Friend William, ſince its done and paſt,
Pray thee, give us Phanaticks but one Caſt,
What thou foreſaw'ſt of March the Fifteenth Laſt;
When ſwift and ſudden as the Angels flye,
Th' Declaration for Conſcience-Liberty;
When things of Heaven burſt from the Royal Breaſt,
More fragrant than the Spices of the Eaſt.
I know in next year's Almanack thou'lt write,
Thou ſaw'ſt the King and Council over-night,
Before that morn, all ſit in Heaven as plain
To be diſcern'd, as if 'twere Charles's Waine,
Great B, great L, and two great AA's were chief
Under Great CHARLES to give poor Fan's relief:
Thou ſaweſt Lord Arlington ordain the man.
To be the firſt Lay Metropolitan.
Thou ſaw'ſt him give induction to a Spittle,
And conſtitute our Brother TOM-DOE-LITTLE.
In the Bears Paw, and the Bulls right Eye,
Some Detriment to Prieſts thou didſt eſpye;
And though by Sol in Libra thou didſt know
Which way the Scale of Policy would go;
Yet Mercury in Aries did decree.
That Wool and Lamb ſhould ſtill Conformiſts be.
But hark-you Will, Steer-poching is not fair;
Had you amongſt the Steers found this March-Hare,
Bred of that luſty Puſs the Good Old Cauſe,
Religion reſcued from Informing Laws;
You ſhould have yelpt aloud, hanging's the end,
By Huntſmens Rule, of Hounds that will not ſpend.
Be gone thou and thy canting-Tribe, be gone;
Go tell thy deſtiny to followers none:
Kings Hearts and Councils are too deep for thee,
And for thy Stars and Doemons ſcrutinie.
King CHARLES Return was much above thy skill
To fumble out, as 'twas againſt thy will.
…rom him who can the Hearts of Kings inſpire,
Not from the Planets, came that Sacred Fire
Of Soveraign Love, which broke into a Flame;
From God and from his King alone it came.
To the KING.
SO great, ſo univerſal, and ſo free!
This was too much great CHARLES, except for Thee,
For any King to give a Subject hope:
To do thus like Thee, would undo the Pope.
Yea, tho his Vaſſals ſhould their wealth combine,
To buy Indulgence half ſo large as thine;
No, if they ſhould not only kiſs his Toe,
But Clement's Podex, he'd not let them goe.
Whil'ſt Thou to's ſhame, Thy immortal glory,
Haſt freed All-Souls from real Purgatory;
And given All-Saints in Heav'n new Joys, to ſee
Their friends in England keep a Jubilee.
Suſpect them not, Great Sir, nor think the worſe;
For ſudden joys like grief, confound at firſt.
The ſplendor of your favour was ſo bright,
That yet it dazles and o'rewhelms our ſight;
Drunk with her cups, my Muſe did nothing mind;
And until now, her feet ſhe could not find.
Greedineſs makes profa'neſs i' th' firſt place;
Hungry men fill their bellies, then ſay grace.
We wou'd make Bonfires, but that we do fear
The name of Incend'ary we may hear.
We wou'd have Muſick too, but 'twill not doo,
For all the Fidlers are Conformiſts too.
Nor can we ring, the angry Churchman ſwears,
(By the King's leave) the Bells and Ropes are theirs.
And let 'em take 'em, for our tongues ſhall ſing
Your Honour louder than their Clappers ring.
Nay, if they will not at this Grace repine,
We'l dreſs the Vineyard, they ſhall drink the Wine.
Their Church ſhall be the Mother, ours the Nurſe.
Peter ſhall preach, Judas ſhall bear the purſe.
No Biſhops, Parſons, Vicars, Curates, we,
But only Miniſters deſire to be.
We'l preach in Sackcloth, they ſhall read in Silk.
We'l feed the Flock, and let them take the Milk.
Let but the Black-birds ſing in buſhes cold,
And may the Jack-dawes ſtill the Steeples hold.
We'l be the Feet, the Back and Hands, and they
Shall be the Belly, and devour the Prey,
The Tythe-pigg ſhall be theirs, we'l turn the ſpit,
We'l bear the Croſs, they only ſign with it.
But if the Patriarchs ſhall envy ſhow
To ſee their younger-Brother Joſeph go
In Coat of divers colours, and ſhall fall
To rend it, 'cauſe it's not Canonical:
Then may they find him turn a Dreamer too,
And live themſelves to ſee his Dream come true.
May rather they and we together joyn
In all what each can; But they have the Coyn:
With Prayers and Tears ſuch ſervice much avail:
With Tears to ſwell your Seas, with Prayers your Sails;
And with Men too, from both our parties; ſuch
I'm ſure we have, can cheat, or beat, the Dutch.
A Thouſand Quakers, Sir, our ſide can ſpare;
Nay, two or three, for they great Breeders are.
The Church can match us too with Jovial Sirs,
Informers, Singing-men and Paraters.
Let the King try, ſet theſe upon the Decks
Together, they will Dutch or Devil vex.
Their Breath will miſchief further than a Gun.
And if you loſe them, you'l not be undone.
Pardon dread Sir, nay pardon this coarſe Paper,
Your Licenſe 'twas made this poor Poet caper.
ITER BOREALE.
End of the text · Robert Wild, Dr Wilds Humble Thanks (1672)