Dr Wilds Poem, Poem
Dr. Wild's Poem. IN NOVA FERT ANIMƲS, &c, OR, A NEW SONG TO AN OLD FRIEND from an OLD POET, Upon the Hopeful New Parliament.
WE are All tainted with the Athenian-Itch,
News, and new Things do the whole World bewitch.
Who would be Old, or in Old faſhions Trade?
Even an Old Whore would fain go for a Maid:
The Modeſt of both Sexes, buy new Graces,
Of Perriwigs for Pates, and Paint for Faces.
Some wear new Teeth in an old Mouth; and ſome
Carve a new Noſe out of an aged Bum.
Old Heſiod's gods Immortal Youth enjoy:
Cupid, though Blind, yet ſtill goes for a Boy;
Under one Hood Hypocrite Janus too,
Carries two faccs, one Old, th'other New.
Apollo wears no Beard, but ſtill looks young;
Diana, Pallas, Venus, all the throng
Of Muſes Graces, Nymphs, look Brisk and Gay,
Priding themſelves in a perpetual May.
Whiles doting Saturn, Pluto, Proſerpin,
At their own ugly Wrinkles Rage and Grin;
The very Furies in their looks do twine;
Snakes, whoſe embroydered skyns nenew their ſhine;
And nothing makes Great Juno chafe and ſcold,
But Joves new Miſſes ſlighting her as Old.
Poets, who others can Immortal make,
When they grow Gray, their Lawrels them forſake;
And ſeek young Temples, where they may grow Green;
No Palſie-hands may waſh in Hypocrene;
'Twas not Terſe Clarret, Eggs, and Muskadine,
Nor Goblets Crown'd with Greek or Spaniſh Wine,
Could make new Flames in Old Ben Johnſons Veins,
But his Attempts prov'd lank and languid ſtrains:
His New Inn (ſo he nam'd his youngeſt Play)
Prov'd a blind Ale-houſe, cry'd down the firſt Day:
His own dull Epitaph—Here lies Ben Johnſon,
(Half drunken too) He Hickcupt—who was once one.
Ah! this ſad once one! once we Trojans were;
Oh, better never, if not ſtill we are.
Rhymes, of Old Men, Iliack paſſions be,
When that ſhould downward go, comes up we ſee,
And are like Jews-Ears in an Elder-Tree;
When Spectacles do once beſtride the Noſe,
The Poet's Gallop turns to ſtumbling-Proſe.
Sir, I am Old, Cold, Mould; and you might hope
To ſee an Alderman dance on a Rope,
A Judg to act a Gallant in a Play,
Or an Old Pluraliſt Preach twice a day;
Of a Thin Taylor make a Valiant Knight,
Or a good Subject of a Jeſuite;
As an old Bald-pate (ſuch as mine- you know)
Should make his Hair, or Wit and Fancy grow
Nor is there need that ſuch a Block as I
Should now be hew'd into a Mercury.
When Winter's gone, the Owl his foot may ſpare,
And to the Nightingales reſign the Air.
Such is the beautiful new face of things:
By Heavens kind Influences, and the Kings,
Joy ſhould inſpire; and all in meaſures move,
And every Citizen a Virgil prove.
Each Proteſtant turn Poet; and who not
Should be ſuſpected guilty of the Plot;
If, now the day doth dawn, our Cocks forbear
To clap their Wings and Crow, you well may ſwear,
It is their want of Loyalty, not Wit,
That makes them ſullen, and ſo ſilent ſit.
Galli of Gallick kind—I'le ſay no more,
But that their Combs are Cut, and they are ſore;
Yet to provoke them, my old Cock ſhall Crow,
That ſo his Eccho round the Town may go.
Upon the New PARLIAMENT.
MY Landlord underprop't his Houſe ſome years,
Was often warn'd—'Twould fall about his Ears;
For the main Timber, That above, and under,
By every Blaſt was apt to rend aſunder.
This year He gently took all down, and then
What of the Old prov'd ſound, did ſerve agen.
May all the New be Heart of Engliſh Oak,
And the whole Houſe ſtand firm from fatal ſtrok,
And nothing in't, the Founder e're provoke.
My Grandam, when her Bees were old and done,
Burnt the old Stock, and a new Hive begun;
And in one year ſhe found a greater ſtore
Of Wax and Honey then in all before.
Variety and Novelty delights;
Old Shooes and Mouldy Bread are Gibeonites.
When Cloaths grow thread-bare, and breeds Vermin too,
To Long Lane with them, and put on ſome new:
When VVine turns Vinegar—All Art is vain,
The VVorld can never make it Wine again.
'Tis time to wean that Child, who bites the Breaſt;
And Chaſe thoſe fowls that do befowl their Neſt.
When Nolls Noſe found the Rump began to ſmell;
He dock't it, and the Nation lik't it well.
Caſt the old-mark't and greazy Cards away,
And give's a new Pack, elſe we will not play;
Nothing but Pork, and Pork, and Pork, to eat!
Good Lanlord give's freſh COMMANS for our Meat.
Trent Council Thirty years lay ſows'd in pickle,
Until it prov'd a ſtinking Conventicle.
And now Old Rome plays over her old Tricks,
This Seventy-nine, ſhall pay for Sixty-ſix:
Out of the Fire, like new refined Gold,
How bright new London looks above the Old,
All Creatures under Old Corruptions groan,
And for a New Creation make their moan:
The Phoenix (of her ſelf grown weary) dyes
Unto ſucceſſion a burnt-ſacrifice.
Old Eagles breed bad Hawks, and they worſe Kites,
And they blind Buzzard (as Old Pliny Writes),
Deans, Prebends, Chaplains think themſelves have wrong,
When Biſhops live unmercifully long;
And poor Diſſenters beg they may aſcend
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end.
And who hath not by good experience found
Beſt Crops are gained by new-broken ground,
And the firſt ſeed—OATS ſifted clean and ſound?
But yet Old Friends, Old Gold, Old King, I praiſe:
Old Tyburn take them who do otherwiſe:
Heaven Chaſe the Vultur from our Eagles Neſt,
And let no Ravens this March-Brood moleſt?
So Sings poor Robin Redbreſt.
FINIS.
End of the text · Robert Wild, Dr Wilds Poem (1679)