Doctor WILD's Squibs Return'd; Or, Observations on his Counterfeit Thanks.
HOw now my
Wild? of
Modesty forsook?
Hath
Liberty thy
Reason Planet-strook?
Good
Manners, that grown scarse too? has thy
Zeal
Devour'd all
Civility at a
Meal?
Doth
none remain? is
Wild turn'd
Hector too?
Making the
Stars of
Heav'n and
Earth to bow
Under thy
Whipcord? or, hast thou
Beadle hight?
To
lash Star-students coming in thy sight,
Because they are but
Men, and do not
know,
Kings Hearts as well as
God that made them so?
Old
Merlin's Genius haunts thee, or thy
Crown
Could never be so grossly
over-grown
With
dull Stupidity. Is there no
mean
Between the
Doubtful, and the
Epicoene?
Must
men be
Fools or
Witches? can't
Medics know
Approaching
Ills, but just the
hour too?
How
Stars incline, for
Mortals is enough;
What
Fates compell, none but the
Gods above
Can well
declare; we'll not presumptuous be:
To know in part, is Man's Felicity.
Yet, should
Astrologers write all they know,
They would be then reputed
Wild, as
thou;
'Tis
Treason, Wild, to touch
Great things too near
But
Madmen of such
Crimes stand not in fear.
Thy croaking humor is return'd I see,
Behold Phanatick
Thanks for
Liberty!
Sure
Mercury at thy
Birth was in the
Ram,
In hostile
ray of
Mars, and thence it came,
That thou didst thus disgorge thy
troubled breast
Which all the
friendly Stars would have at rest.
Some
Opiate I advise thee for thy
Health;
Thy feav'rish
Brain consumes thy
spirits wealth.
Bless thee from Madness,
Wild! thy
heat appears
So
strong 'gainst
Bishops, 'thath increast my
fears.
But hark thee,
Wild! what shall I
fancie thee?
A
Theologue, or
Spawn of
Poetry?
If a
Divine, such
Gravity should appear,
As should be
charming to each
Heart, Eye, Ear;
Such
Olive Branches from thy
Pen should spring
As should beget a
Love from every thing;
Such blessed
breathings from the
sacred Quire,
As
kindle in all
hearers Holy fire;
Good
Order then in
Churches thou'dst approve,
Not
gibe at
Bishops, but
invoke their
Love.
But ah! my
Wild, no such
persuading Theme
Art thou
possest of, (scarsely in a
dream)
Thou'rt the Phanaticks
Poet, and dost
rant
As
high among
them, as the
best can
cant;
Singing of
Thousand Quakers, that will
fight,
As
loyally as angry
Wild doth
write.
Thus utt'ring
Squibs and
Crackers, to provoke
Some
trifling Sheet to
match thy
smoak with
smoak.
No
son of
Saturn is my
Wild I see,
For then in private
shades he'd
quiet be;
Nor
fruit of
Jove, for
Jove is
Juvans Pater,
And helps, by's nourishing
rays, our
Alma Mater;
Protects the Rev'rend
Clergie, and maintains
Religions rights against
Phanatick Brains:
Bright
Phoebus knows him not, for
Princes shine
From his
fair Beams; Wild's
spots endarken him.
The beauteous
Cynthia in him claims no part,
She's a mere
stranger to the
Poets Art:
Besides, she's
apt to change; wou'd
Wild were
so!
That he from — might
good Church-man grow.
To call him
Son of Venus I not dare;
And
Hermes, nobly placed, will not care
To own a
Riming railer; 'tis hot
Mars,
Ill dignifi'd, begets
Wild's Metre-wars:
He should be placed too with
Dragons tail,
By th' poys'nous
raptures that so
fills his
sail.
Then Son of
Thunder, Religious
Boanerges,
(Great
Second unto
Pious Doctor Burgess)
Not
Priest, but
Minister, or
Poetaster!
Whose
halting doggrelrimes come from him faster
Than
Holy Sermons; cease thy
Canting strain,
Give
ease a little to thy
tired Brain;
No more abuse
Grave Prelates, least the curse
Of
Schisme, Heresie, or some what worse,
So closely cling unto thee, that thy
Prayers
Missing
Heav'ns Blessing, stand in need of
theirs.
They are the
Moysesses which daily do
Sit in the
gap to
save such
Souls as you.
Is't
Crime in
them that you the
Laws oppose,
And must your obstinate
stomach haulk at those?
You'd be thought
Loyal, and yet
Prelates sting;
None hate the Clergie that ere lov'd the King.
But durst
VVild be as
bold with
Majesty,
As with the
Bishops Holy
Hierarchy;
He would as briskly
vomit forth his
Gall,
(As now gainst
Bishops) 'gainst ye
Monarchs all.
So
VVild farewell, thy person, parts I love;
But mourn thy Principles no better prove.
London, Printed for J. R. Anno Dom. 1672.