Dr. VVILD'S ECCHO, OR, A full Answer to his POEM on the IMPRISONMENT OF MASTER CALAMY.
FAir Umbra, I salute you, who wert made
(Ex nihilo nihil fit) Doctor of a shade
Poet in rhymes, great Oratour in sense,
Score up a man for his intelligence.
Whose Pulpit-Rhet'rick finds a Poetick aire
To damne the Sinner without book or prayer,
His Poetical Droll upon a Sinner, is well remembred.
Clear words but misapply'd t' a sense most vext,
As if the Application slew the Text.
Well, 'tis resolv'd, that I do rout your rhymes:
Ev'n as the Gout doth recollect your crimes;
For ev'ry limb a grief: oh! here's the Sinner,
Who then must be the Man for t' Devils dinner.
This is your Pulpit stuff, then baste your roast
And turn, least you become a burned toast
And so Don Calamy shall be your hoast.
Methinks you sympathize, conversion small,
Where the first turning findes no grief at all,
Imprisonment, oh! that's a thing of price
Adam in prison was, in Paradise.
Imprisonment, thus Danae was in hold,
When Jupiter came raining down with gold.
Imprisonment, a stain, oh, that's a grace:
Black spots add beauty to the whitest face.
Imprisonment, who would not prisoner ly,
That he might fare, as once Don Calamy?
Thus I have sav'd your humour, and your cause
But can't abide the breaking of our Laws.
Tell me then (Sir) wherein did lie his glory,
That He is made our Ages talk and story,
For his Imprisonment: All things observe
A rule in doing duty, and ne're swerve.
When that the Sun doth rise, and brightest shine
It still maintains its progress by the line.
When that the Stars do in heav'ns roads appear,
They regulate their motion by the sphear.
The beasts are grateful, and receive direction
From that hand, which doth give them a protection
The senceless Eccho hears the mouths confession,
And doubles or'e the speech in the expression.
The Sun may teach the factious Rout to shine,
And yet observe external discipline.
The Stars may learn the Presbyterian Seers
For to move regular within their sphears.
The Beasts may teach them for to take direction
From that kinde hand, that gives them a protection,
The hollow Eccho may learn them their shares,
To make Responsals to our Church's pray'rs.
Then save your Complement in the first Rhyme,
A punishment is nat'ral to a Crime.
If that the Sun should wander from its roade,
Darkness, its brighter Brow must strait-way loade.
If Stars should wanton it without their sphear,
They must not in heavens Gallaxy appear.
If Beasts are stubborn, and won't take direction
From th' Masters hand they must receive correction.
If Ecchoes don't repeat our voices or'e,
Wee'll stile them Mutes, and speake to them no more.
And thus you see each thing observes a Rule,
The Sun, the Stars, the Eccho, Horse and Mule.
And when they won't be to a rule confin'd,
They're punished according to their kinde.
And doth he less deserve a prison, then they
Correction, when they from their orders stray?
Imprisonment is proper to a lust:
And who so fowles his Coat must have it brusht.
Paine commonly accompanies a halt,
A prison is the sequel of a fault.
What bore he there for to perfume the place,
Himself, his wife, or any of his Race?
Or carried he the Church's pray'rs in's breast,
Such sweets as these, might have perfum'd that Nest,
For private pray'rs bear but an incense small,
But publick ones do carry most of all
'Tis question'd then, if hee'd there longer stood,
Whither he had not done more hurt then good.
For had those Newgate-birds observ'd his traces
They'd ev'ry one been turn'd out of their places.
And being past for breaking Law, might fly,
Escape (as He) for non-conformity.
His lying-in call'd his wife to the Bet
And so her hungry stomach well did get,
He Her did feed, she him again did nurse,
She gat her belly full, and he the purse.
And since you judge 't a mercy great, and free
I wish you all such lying in as He
And I shall envy [...], then you our p [...]ces,
The Bishops ornaments, or richer faces.
But tell (my Lords) how you such faces got?
What do rich faces fall to you by lot?
Or came they from Jack Presbyters cutting tricks,
Who found such Shavers for your Bishopricks?
Or are they rich compar'd to their pincht jaws,
Whose narrow Conscience cries oh! at our Laws?
And can't conform: for why? it is a fault:
'Twill make their tender spirit limp and halt.
At what command then pray (Sir) will you fall?
I w [...]h you do not stumble or'e them all.
Th [...]r faces are not (as yours) rich or known
By [...]at which properly is not their own
Th [...]'ve not so big a swallow, as your lust
W [...]ch strains at their Lawn sleeves, and eat their dust.
Th [...] can't with conscience consume a Nation,
A [...] live on others rights by sequestration.
Th [...] cannot frame a pious gloss to rant,
A [...] kill the King by th'force of Covenant.
N [...] devour steeples, as you did the flock,
Y [...] neither spar'd the fleece, nor yet the stock,
B [...] [...]onsum'd all, forct Pastors from their sold,
A [...] Churches unto private uses sold
M [...]ing the steeples look like empty sockets.
A [...] putting up the means into your pockets.
Pre [...]ending highly to most greedy raptures
Ea [...]th' Contents, and lay'd aside the Chapters
Ruining all, to build your Babel high
As if you meant a Gygantomachy
To merit by injustice, and by odds
To go to heaven, and there displace the gods.
And shall Smeck's Egypt Tyranny be a Law?
Who kept the Brick themselves, left us the straw.
And must our Church then lean upon a Crutch?
We love their grace, but do their greatness grutch.
Bishops look to't old Smeck is still alive,
And, in him here, stands representative,
Complains of wrong, and yet behold the b- lest- east
By's keeping up a while is much encreast
Thus the Body nat'ral doth often fret
Its own estate, that so the Wen may get.
As for his preaching when that he was dead,
So once did speak Fryar Bacons brazen head.
Time is, when thou a non-conformist art,
And sleep'st, when thou should'st answer to thy part.
Time was, when thou didst once conform to mee,
And study'st how to make me eccho thee
Time is to come, when if thou on me call,
I'll be to thee a head Canonical.
Which being said, the Head did bow and fall,
Humbled it self, and spake no more at all,
With that the sluggard straightway did arise,
Instead of reverencing, did it despise.
Strongly affirm'd, that the head set up for merit
Was possest throughly with an evil spirit.
And that the Priests that were by It elected,
Were drunkards all, and Popishly affected,
Suspend it then: for th' Devil doth in't speak,
Condemn its follow'rs, and the head lets break.
But stay, thou man of tongue: what will you rave,
And ne're leave rayling at us in your grave?
Uncannon'd crime, pride grown, are you so far
From rule, that your dust turns irregular?
A Presbyterian [...]most strongly draws
I'st crime canonical to break our Laws?
What is't your virtue for to make a rent
In State, and carp at the Church-government?
Now for our stealing Sermons, so you bawle,
That 'tis with us a crime Canonical.
But is't forgot, that you our lands did lurch?
'Tis your crime Classical to rob the Church.
We th' Antient Father's words do sometimes cite,
To give unto our Doctrine greater light.
But they're unpriviledg'd with you, no pledge,
'Cause they condemn your pride, and sacriledge.
Of what stuff then is made your pulpit prose?
Of so much of a Presbyters Hum; or Nose.
A novel Writer with th' Assemblies Note,
Considered, as strained through your throat,
Stands for as good Divinity with you,
As any of the Father's Writings do.
He that our sermons reads, in them o'relooks
Seas of divinity, yours shallow brooks.
A modern blast, blowing the Assemblies fire,
A pack of them being burnt will stame the higher.
'Tis fit, words, that were darker in your breath,
Should become true Enlightners at their death.
And since they serve for nought, but to provoke
Should turn to vapours, and possess a smoak.
Now to conclude, I wish you all your due,
Such Bishops as the Gout is unto you.
For Non-Conformists heretofore were known
To be most dreadful Drawers from the Crown.
Old Smecks proud Foot did claim the highest Seat,
Thence th' Presbyterian toes did swell so great.
They are with sturdy humours puft and grown
The greater they, the weaker is the Crown,
Let's then agree to bring their proud flesh down.
Starve their high humours to a humiliation
And bring their greatness low by deprivation.
And thus the Foot, and Toes may loose their pain,
And the Crown Mitr'd may its own regain.