Learning my poor Parents brought up me And sent me to the Universitie There I soon found bowing the way to rise And th' only Logick was the Falacies In stead of Aristotles Organon Anthems and Organs I did study on If I could play on them I soon did find I rightly had Preferment in the wind I follow'd that hot scent without controul I bow'd my body and I sung Fa Sol I cozen'd Doctor Couzens and ere long A Fellow ship obtained for a Song Then by degrees I climb'd until I got Good Friends good Cloaths good Commons and what not I got so long until at length I got A Wench with Child and then I got a blot Before the Consistory I was try'd Where like a Villain I both swore and ly'd And from the whore I made I was made free By purging of my self Incont'nent-LEE But as I scorn'd to father mine own Brat 'T was done to me as I had done with That The Doctors all when Doctor I would be As a base son refus'd to father me With much ado at length by art and cunning My Tears Vows prevail'd with Peter Gunning Me to adopt and for his love and care I will devote my self to Peter's Chair Cambridge I left with grief and great disgrace To seek my fortune in some other place And that I might the better save my stake I took an Order and did Orders take Amongst Conformists I my self did list A Son o' th Church as good as ever pist But though I bow'd and cring'd crost all I only got a Vicarage very small Ere I was warm and warm I ne're had bin In such a starved hole as I was in A Fire upon the Church and Kingdom came Which I straight helpt to blow into a flame The Third Part. MY Conscience first like Balaam's Asse was shy Bogled and winc'd which when I did espy I cudgeld her and spur'd her on each side Until the Jade her paces all could ride When first I mounted on her tender back She would not leave the Protestant dull Rack Till in her mouth the Cov'nant Bit I got And made her learn the Presbyterian Trot 'T was an hard Trot and fretted her alas The Independent Amble easier was I taught her that and out of that to fall To the Tantivy of Prelaâ—ical I rode her once to Rumford with a pack Of Arguments for th' Cov'nant on her back That Journey she perform'd at such a rate Th ' Committee gave me a rich piece of Plate From Hatfield to St. Albans I did ride The Army call'd for me to be their Guide There I so spurd her that I made her fling Not only dirt but blood upon my King When Cromwel turn'd his Masters out by force I made the Beast draw like a Brewers horse Under the Rump I made her wear a Crooper And under Lambert she became a Trooper When Noble Monk the KING did home conveigh She like Darius Steed began to neigh. I taught her since to Organ Pipes to prance As Banks his Horse could to a Fiddle dance Now with a Snaffle or a twined thread To any Government she 'l turn her head I have so broke her she doth never start And that 's the meaning of my broken heart I have found out a cunning way with ease To make her cast her Coat when ere I please And if at Rack and Manger she may be Her Colts tooth she will keep most Wanton-LEE I 'l change as often as the Man i' th Moon His frequent Changing makes him rise so soon To eat Church Plumb-broth e're it all be gone I 'le have the Devil's spoon but I 'le have One. For many years my Tongue did lick the Rump But when I saw a KING was turn'd up Trump I did resolve still in my hand to have One winning Card although 't were but a Knave If the Great Turk to England come I can Make Gospel truckle to the Alchoran And if their Turkish Sabbaths should take place I have in readiness my Friday face If lock in Iron Chest as we are told A Loadstone their great Mahomet can hold The Loadstone of Preferment I presage To Mahomet may draw this Iron Age. The Congregation way best pleas'd my mind There were more Shee s and they most free and kind By Chamber practice I did better thrive Than all my Livings though I skimmed five Mine Eyes are open now my Sins to see With Tears I cry Good People Pardon me My Reverend Fathers Pardon I do crave And hope my Mothers Blessing yet to have My Cambridge sins my Bugden sins are vile My Essex sins my sins in Ely-Isle My Leicester sins my Hatfield sins are many But my St. Albans sins more red than any To CHARLES the first I was a bloody foe I wish I do not serve the Second so The only way to make me leave that trick Is to bestow on me a Bishoprick This is St. Andrews Eve and for his sake A Bishoprick in Scotland I could take And though a Metropolitan there be I 'de be as Sharp and full as Arch as he Now may this Sermon never be forgot Let others call 't a Sermon I a Plot A Plot that takes if it believed be If not I shall repent Unfained-LEE I must desire the Crack-fart of the Nation With rev'rance to let fly this Recantation Our Names ty'd tail to tail make a sweet change Mine only is Strange-Lee and his Le-strange THE PORING DOCTOR OR The Gross mistake of a Reverend Son of the Church in bowing at the namâ— of Judas at St. Pauls November 5. 1663. THe Papists God wot made a notable Plot Against the Church and the State Which some with good reason Call Gunpowder-Treason Discover'd ere 't was too late Those who before Had weltred in gore Of Protestant Martyrs slain Resolv'd with one breath Of Hell beneath To blow up all by a Train The Bishops good men Were in jeopardy then The Lords the Commons the King Religion and Laws For the Catholick Cause To be made a Burnt Offring Thus swell'd with dispight To raise darkness and night Heav'n caused the brood to miscarry That day big with Thunder Held forth Mercies wonder And therefore kept Anniversary You the present Lord Mayor And Brethren repair With the several Corporations To Pauls Church to pray And solemnize the Day That so seasonably saved three Nations But good Doctor When he came before ye The Sacred Gospel to read At Judas his name O horrible shame He bowed his Reverend head Some say that his fight Poor man is not right I wish that it be no worse But others think he To Judas bow'd th' knee For love he bears to the Purse His Worship made doubt Where the battel was fought When Michael did prevail But to me it is clear For an hundred a year He 'l bow to the Dragons Tail Twelve Spiritual Promotions A head full of Notions With stomach more sharp than a Sythe Some of Bishopsgate there Perhaps did appear Whose
Iter Boreale With large Additions of several other POEMS BEING An EXACT COLLECTION of all hitherto Extant Never before Published together The Author R. Wild D. D. Printed for the Booksellers in London MDCLXVIII MVNIFICENTIA REGIA 1715. GEORGIVS D. G. MAG BR FR. ET HIB REX F. D. J. Pâ—â—â— Sculp Iter Boreale Attempting somthing upon the Successful and Matchless March of the LORD GENERAL George Monck From SCOTLAND to LONDON in the Winter 1659. I. THe day is broke Melpomene be gone Hag of my Fancy let me now alone Night-mare my Soul no more Go take thy flight Where Traitors Ghosts keep an eternal night Flee to Mount Caucasus and bear thy part With the black fowl that tears Prometheus heart For his bold Sacriledg Go fetch the groans Of defunct Tyrants with them croke thy Tones Go see Alecto with her flaming whip How she fiâ—ks Nol and makes old Bradshaw skip Go make thy self away Thou shalt no more Choak up my Standâ—sh with the blood and gore Of English Tragedies I now will chuse The merriest of the nine to be my Muse And come what will â—le scribble once again The 〈◊〉 Sword hath cut the nobler Vein Of racy Poetry Our small-drink-times Must be contented and take up with Rhimes They 'r sorry toyes from a poor Levites pack Whose Living and Assesments drink no Sack The Subject will excuse the Verse I trow The Ven son's fat although the crust be dough II. I He who whileom sate and sung in Cage My Kings and Countries Ruines by the rage Of a rebellious Rout wâ—o weeping saw Three goodly Kingdoms drunk with fury draw And sheath their Swords like three engaged brotheâ—s In one anothers sides ripping their Mothers Belly and tearing out her bleeding heart Then jealous that their Father fain would part Their bloody fray and let them fight no more Fell foul on Him and slew Him at His dore I that have only dar'd to whisper Verses And drop a tear by stealth on loyal Hearses I that enraged at the Times and Rump Had gnaw'd my Goose-quill to the very stump And flung that in the Fire no more to write But to sit down poor Britains Heraclite Now sing the triumphs of the Men of War The Glorious Rayes of the bright Northern Star Created for the nonce by Heaven to bring The wise men of three Nations to their King MONCK the great Monck that syllable out-shines Plantagenet's bright Name or Constantine's 'T was at His Rising that Our Day begun Be he the Morning Star to CHARLES our Sun He took Rebellion rampant by the throat And made the Canting Quaker change his Note His hand it was that wrote we saw no more Exit Tyrannus over Lamberts dore Like to some subtle Lightning so His Words Dissolved in their Scabbards Rebels Swords He with success the Soveraign skill hath found To dress the Weapon and to heal the Wound George and his Boyes as Spirits do they say Only by walking scare our Foes away III. OLd Holofernes was no sooner laid Before the Idols Funeral Pomp was paid Nor shall a penny ere be paid for me Let fools that trusted his true Mourners be Richard the Fourth just peeping out of Squire No fault so much as th' old one was his Sire For men believ'd though all went in his Name Hee 'd be but Tenant till the Landlord came When on a sudden all amaz'd we found The seven years Babel tumbled to the ground And he poor heart thanks to his cunning Kin Was soon in Querpo honest Dick agen Exit Protector What comes next I trow Let the State-Huntsmen beat again So-ho Cries Lambert Master of the Hounds Here sits That lusty Puss The Good Old Cause whos 's wits Shew'd Oliver such sport That that cries Vane Le ts put her up and run her once again She 'l lead our Dogs and Followers up and down Whilst we match Families and take the Crown Enter th' old Members 'T was the Month of May These Maggots in the Rump began to play Wallingford Anglers though they stunk yet thought They would make baits by which Fish might be caught And so it prov'd they soon by taxes made More money than the Holland Fishing Trade IV. NOw broke in Egypts Plagues all in a day And one more worse than theirs We must not pray To be deliver'd Their scab'd folks were free To scratch where it did itch So might not we That Meteor Cromwel though he scar'd gave light But we were now cover'd with horrid night Our Magistracy was like Moses Rod Turn'd to a Serpent by the angry God Poor Citizens when Trading would not do Made brick without straw and were blasted too Struck with the botch of Taxes and Excise Servants our very dust were turn'd to Lice It was but turning Souldiers and they need Not work at all but on their Masters feed Strange Catterpillars are our pleasant things And Frogs croakt in the Chambers of our Kings Black bloody veins did in the Rump prevail Like the Philistims Emrods in the Tayle Lightning Hall Fire and Thunder Egypt had And England Guns Shot Powder that 's as bad And that Sea-Monster Lawson if withstood Threatned to turn our Rivers into Blood And Plague of all these Plagues all these Plagues fell Not on an Egypt but our Israel V. SIck as her heart can hold the Nation lies Filling each corner with her hideous cries Somtimes Rage like a burning Fever hearts Anon Despair brings cold and clammy Sweats She cannot sleep or if she doth she dreams Of Rapes Thefts Burnings Blood and direful theams Tosses from side to side then by and by Her feet are laid there where the head did lie None can come to her but bold Empericks Who never meant to cure her but try tricks Those very Doctors who should give her ease God help the Patient was her worst disease Th' Italian Mountebank Vane tells her sure Jesuits Powder will effect the Cure If grief but makes her swell Martin and Nevil Conclude it is a spice of the Kings-Evil Bleed her again another cries And Scot Saith he could cure her if 't was you know what But giddy Harrington a whimsey found To make her head like to his brains run round Her old and wise Physitians who before Had well nigh cur'd her came again to th' dore But were kept out which made her cry the more Help help dear Children Oh! some pity take On her who bore you help for mercy sake Oh heart Oh head Oh back Oh bones I feel They 've poyson'd me with giving too much steel Oh give me that for which I long and cry Somthing that 's Soveraign or else I dye VI. KInd Cheshire heard And like some son that stood Upon the Bank straight jump'd into the flood Flings out his arms strikes som strokes to sivim Booth ventur'd first and Middleton with him Stout Mackworth Egerton and thousands more Threw themselves in and left the safer shore Massey that famous Diver and bold Brown Forsook his
thou maist have A speedy Resurrection from the Grave AN ESSAY Upon the late VICTORY obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York Against the DUTCH upon June 3. 1665. By the Author of Iter Boreale GOUT I conjure thee by the powerful Names Of CHARLES and JAMES and their victorious Fames On this great Day set all thy Prisoners free Triumphs command a Goal-Delivery Set them all free leave not a limping Toe From my Lord Chancellors to mine below Unless thou giv'st leave this day to dance Thou' rt not th' old Loyal Gout but com'st from France 'T is done my grief obeys the Sovereign Charms I feel a Bonfire in my joynts which warms And thaws the frozen jelly I am grown Twenty years younger Victory hath done What puzled Physick Give the Dutch a Rout Probatum est 't will cure an English Gout Come then put nimble Socks upon my Feet They shall be Skippers to our Royal Fleet Which now returns in dances on our Seas A Conqueror above Hyperboles A Sea which with Bucephalus doth scorn Less then an Alexander should be born On her proud Back but to a Loyal Rein Yields foaming Mouth bends her cursed Main And conscious that she is too strait a Stage For Charls to act on swell'd with Loyal Rage Urgeth the Belgick and the Gallick shore To yield more room Her Master must have more Ingrateful Neighbours 't was our kinder Isle With Her own Blood made Your Geneva Stile Writ in-small Print Poor States and sore Perplext Swel to the HIGH AND MIGHTY LORDS in text And can ye be such Snakes to sting that Breast Which in your Winter gave you Warmth Rest Poor Flemish Frogs if Your Ambition thirst To swell to Engâ—ish Greatness You will burst Could you believe Our Royal Head would fail To Nod those down who fell before our Tail Or could Your Amsterdam by her commands Make London carry Coals to warm her Hands A bold attempt Pray practice it no more We sav'd our Coals yet gave you fire good store It is enough The righteous Heavens have now Judg'd the Grand Quarrel betwixt us and you The Sentence is The Surface must be ours But for the bottom of the Sea 't is yours Thither your Opdam with some thousands are Gone down to take possession of your share Methinks I here great Triton sound a Call And through th' affrâ—ghted Ocean summon all His scaly Regiments to come and take Part of that Feast which Charls their King doth make Where they may glut Revenge quit the old score And feed on those who fed on them before Whom when they have digested who can find Whether they 're fish or flesh or what 's their kind Van-Cod Van-Ling Van-Herring will be cry'd About their Streets All Fish so Dutchifi'd The States may find their Capers in their Dish And meet their Admirals in butter'd Fish Thus they 'l imbody and increase their Crew A cunning way to make each Dutch-man two And on themselves they now must feed or fast Their Herring Trade is brought unto its Last To the KING GReat Sir Belov'd of God and Man admit My Loyal zeal to run before my Wit This is my Pens miscarriage not a Birth Her haste hath made her bring blind Puppies forth My aims in this attempt are to provoke And kindle flames more Noble by my smoak My wisp of straw may set great Wood on Fire And my weak Breath Your Organs may inspire Amongst those Flags y'have taken from the Dutch Command your Denham to hang up his Crutch He is a man both of his Hands and Feet And with great numbers can your Navy meet His quicker Eye Your Conquest can survey His Hand York's Temples Crown with flourishing Bay Waller great Poet and true Prophet too Whos 's curious Pencil in Rich Colours drew The Type of this grand Triumph for your view The Fishers like their Herrings bleeding new With the same hand shal give the World the Sights Of what it must expect when England Fights That Son and Heir of Pindars Muse and Fame Your modest Cowley with Your breath will flame And make those Belgick Beasts who live aspire To fall your Sacrifice in his pure Fire He shall proclaim Our JAMES great Neptune's Wonder And like a Jove Fighting in Clouds and Thunder THE GRATEFUL NON-CONFORMIST OR Return of Thanks to Sir J. B. Knight who sent the Author Ten CROWNS 1665. TEn Crowns at once and to one man and hâ— As despicable as bad Poets be Who scarce has Wit if you require the same To make an Anagram upon your Name Or to out-rime a Barber or prepare An Epitaph to serve a Quinbrough Mayer A limping Levite who scarce in his prime Could woe an Abigal or say Grace in rhime Ten Crowns to such a Thing Friend 't is a doâ—â— Able to raise dead Ben or Davenant's Nose Able to make a Courtier prove a Friend And more then all of them in Victuals spend This free free-Parliament whose gift doth souâ—â— Full five and twenty hundred thousand pound You have out-done them for yours was your own And some of it shall last when theirs is gon Ten Crowns at once and now at such a time When Love to such as I am is a Crime Greater then his Recorded in Jane Shore Who gave but one poor loaf to the starv'd Whore What now to help a Non-Conformist Now When Ministers are broke that will not bow When 't is to be unblest to be ungirt To wear no Surplice doth deserve no shirt No Broth no Meat no Service no Protection No Cross no Coin no Collect no Collection You are a daring Knight thus to be kind If trusty Roger get it in the wind Hee 'l smell a Plot a Presbyterian Plot Especially for what you gave the Scot And if the Spiritual Court take fire from Crack They 'l clap a Pariter upon your back Shall make you shrug as if you wore the Collar Of a Cashier'd Red-coat or poor Scholar What will you plead Sir if they put you to 't Was it the Doctor or the Knight did do 't Did you as Doctor flux some Usurer And with your quick did his dull Silver stir Or did your Zeal you a Knight-Templer make To give the Church the booties you should take Or was it your desire to beg Applause Or shew affection to the good old Cause Was 't to feed Faction or uphold the stickle Betwixt the old Church and new Conventicle No none of these but I have hit the thing It was because you knew I lov'd the King Ten Crowns at once Sir you 'l suspected be For no good Protestant you are so free So much at once sure you ne'r gave before Or else I doubt mean to do so no more This is enough to make a man protest Religio Medici to be the best The Christians for whose sakes we are undone Would have cry'd out oh 't is too much for one Either to give or take what needs this wast Oh how they love to