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
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
clapt up you another me But oh the difference too is very great You are allow'd to walk to drink and eat I want them all and never a penny get And though you be debarr'd your liberty Yet all your Visitors I hope are free Good Men good Women and good Angels come And make your Prison better then your home Now may it be so till your foes repent They gave you such a rich Imprisonment May for the greater comfort of your lives Your lying in be better then your Wives May you a thousand friendly papers see And none prove empty except this from me And if you stay may I come keep your door Then farewel Parsonage I shall ne'r be poor ON THE DEATH OF M R. CALAMY Not known to the Author of a long time after Anno 1667. ANd must our Deaths be silenc'd too I guess 'T is some dumb Devil hath possest the Press Calamy dead without a Publication 'T is great injustice to our English Nation For had this Prophet's Funeral been known It must have had an Universal Groan Afflicted London would then have been found In the same year to be both burn'd and drown'd And those who found no Tears their flames to quench Would yet have wept a Showre his Herse to drench Methinks the Man who stuffs the Weekly Sheet With fine New-Nothings what hard Names did meet The Emp'ress how her Petticoat was lac'd And how her Lacquyes Liveries were sac'd What 's her chief Woman's Name what Dons do bring Almonds and Figs to Spain's great little King Is much concern'd if the Pope's Toe but akes When he breaks Wind and when a Purge he takes He who can gravely advertise and tell Where Lockier and Ronland Pippin dwell Where a Black Box or Green-Bag was lost And who was Knighted though not what it cost Methinks he might have thought it worth the while Though not to tell us who the State begnile Or what new Conquest England hath acquired Nor that poor Trifle who the City fired Though not how Popery exalts its head And Priests and Jesuits their poyson spread Yet in swoln Characters he might let fly The Presbyterians have lost an Eye Had Crackf 's Fiddle been in tune but he Is now a Silenc'd Man as well as We He had struck up loud Musick and had plaid A Jig for joy that Calamy was laid He would have told how many Coaches went How many Lords and Ladies did lament What Handkerchiefs were sent and in them Gold To wipe the Widows he would have told All had come out and we beholden all To him for th' ovreflowing of his gall But why do I thus Rant without a cause Is not Concealment Policy Whose Laws My silly peevish Muse doth ill t' oppose For publick Losses no Man should disclose And such was this a greater loss by far One Man of God then twenty Men of War It was a King who when a Prophet dy'd Wept over him and Father Father cry'd O if thy Life and Ministry be done My Chariots and Horsemen strength is gone I must speak sober words for well I know If Saints in Heaven do hear us here below A lye though in his Praise would make him frown And chide me when with Jesus he comes down To judge the World This little He This silly sickly silenc'd Calamy Aldermanbury's Curate and no more Though he a mighty Miter might have wore Could have vi'd Interest in God or Man With the most pompous Metropolitan How have we known him captivate a throng And made a Sermon twenty thousand strong And though black-mouths his Loyalty did charge How strong his tug was at the Royal Barge To hale it home great GEORGE can well attest Then when poor Prelacy lay dead in'ts nest For if a Collect could not fetch him home Charles must stay out that Interest was mum Nor did Ambition of a Miter make Him serve the Crown it was for Conscience-sake Unbribed Loyalty his highest reach Was to be Master Calamy and preach He bless'd the King who Bishop him did name And I bless him who did refuse the same O! had our Reverend Clergy been as free To serve their Prince without Reward as he They might have had less Wealth with greater Love Envy like Winds endangers things above Worth not Advancement doth beget esteem The highest Weathercock the least doth seem If you would know of what disease he dy'd His grief was Chronical it is reply'd For had he opened been by Surgeons art They had found London burning in his heart How many Messengers of death did he Receive with Christian Magnanimity The Stone Gout Dropsie Ills which did arise Form Griefs and Studies not from Luxuries The Megrim too which still strikes at the Head These he stood under and scarce staggered Might he but work though loaded with these Chains He Pray'd and Preach'd and sung away his pains Then by a fatal Bill he was struck dead And though that blow he ne're recovered For he remained speechless to his close Yet did he breath and breath out Prayers for those From whom he had that wound he liv'd to hear An hundred thousand buried in one Year In his Dear City over which he wept And many Fasts to keep off Judgments kept Yet yet he liv'd stout heart he liv'd to be Depriv'd driv'n out and kept out liv'd to see Wars Blazing-Stars Torches which Heav'n nev'r burns But to light Kings or Kingdoms to their Urns. He liv'd to see the Glory of our Isle London consumed in its Funeral Pile He liv'd to see that lesser day of Doom London the Priests Burnt-sacrifice to Rome That blow he could not stand but with that Fire As with a Burning Feaver did expire Thus dy'd this Saint of whom it must be said He dy'd a Martyr though he dy'd in 's bed So Father Eli in the Sacred page Sat quivering with fear as much as age Longing to know yet loth to ask the News How it far'd with the Army of the Jews Israel flies that struck his Palsie-head The next blow stunned him Your Sons are dead But when the third stroke came The Ark is lost His heart was wounded and his life it cost Thus fell this Father and we well do know He fear'd our Ark was going long ago The EPITAPH HEre a poor Minister of Christ doth lie Who did INDEED a Bishoprick deny When his Lord comes then then the World shall see Such bumble Ones the rising-Men shall be How many Saints whom he had sent before Shouted to see him enter Heavens door There his blest Soul beholds the face of God While we below groan out our Ichabod Under his burned-Church his Body lies But shall it self a glorious Temple rise May his kind flock when a new Church they make Call it St. Edmundsbury for his sake R. W. THE Loyal-Nonconformist OR An Account what he dare swear and what he dare not swear Published in the year 1666. I Fear an Oath before I swear to take it And well I