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 |
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Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild. |
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Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild.
What sullen wary Shepherds voice is this,
That won't be tempted from his private bliss,
But arbor'd up in Eglantine, while Thunder
Threatens to rend and rive that Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs himself in fairer dayes
Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise
Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep
At once the pleasant Shepherd and his Sheep?
Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,
And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat?
Is this a time for an inglorious sloth
To hug it self, not daring to peep forth
Into the open field, while th' crafty Fox
Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks,
And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold,
To fright the silly Sheep ev'n in their Fold?
Dost thou not know what crops the Plauge his made
And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?
That if Heav'ns wrathful Anger thus proceed,
There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.
London has sent up such a darkning smoak,
And shall it too the Angels voices choak?
Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we
Shall never more thy publick Censers see?
'Tis Sacriledge to rob the Church; and thence
Since you have stole your self, what's your offence?
When the white Harvest for more Reapers cryes,
How canst thou freely sit and temporize?
So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,
When Phœbus pouders all his locks with light
So feral Birds delight to sit alone,
Till the Days glories are packt up and gone.
So Roses fall in June when frosts are past,
And on dull earth lye blushing out their last,
So the Musitian smothers his Sol fa,
When he's entreated or to sing or play.
So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat,
Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.
And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre
Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,
And seems to shiv'r at th' downfal of Paul's Quire.
Say we not well, Agues will have their course?
Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse
The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer,
That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker
But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,
That plump Lyceus should grow lean this year?
Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grape-stone
Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon?
Which of the Muses or the Graces all,
Did ere for Claret or Canary call?
Is it not sung by the Venetian Swain,
How the brisk Wine gives Horns to the poor man?
And if you have no greater care, no doubt
You'l find the Claret will revive your Gout,
And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul
Cry out for help to save thy Pedestal;
Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,
Practise worse tunes than Organs ever toot.
This is a vain presage; thou say'st, the Dead
Have out-liv'd this, and have no Gout to dread.
But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,
Heark how the dead mans bum does let a fart.
When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,
'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum;
To vote her of the Babylonish Crew;
And set the Furies on her with ha-loo.
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;
Had Dina kept at home, shee'd sav'd her Honor.
But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be;
But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me?
Dost think thy Son so sanguine and insano,
To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano.
This I should leave to any of the Crew,
You may believe me though I were a Jew.
And may my breath be still perfum'd, why not?
Since dead Corps smell when they begin to rot.
That won't be tempted from his private bliss,
But arbor'd up in Eglantine, while Thunder
Threatens to rend and rive that Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs himself in fairer dayes
Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise
Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep
At once the pleasant Shepherd and his Sheep?
Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,
And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat?
Is this a time for an inglorious sloth
To hug it self, not daring to peep forth
Into the open field, while th' crafty Fox
Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks,
And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold,
To fright the silly Sheep ev'n in their Fold?
Dost thou not know what crops the Plauge his made
And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?
That if Heav'ns wrathful Anger thus proceed,
There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.
London has sent up such a darkning smoak,
And shall it too the Angels voices choak?
Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we
Shall never more thy publick Censers see?
113
Since you have stole your self, what's your offence?
When the white Harvest for more Reapers cryes,
How canst thou freely sit and temporize?
So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,
When Phœbus pouders all his locks with light
So feral Birds delight to sit alone,
Till the Days glories are packt up and gone.
So Roses fall in June when frosts are past,
And on dull earth lye blushing out their last,
So the Musitian smothers his Sol fa,
When he's entreated or to sing or play.
So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat,
Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.
And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre
Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,
And seems to shiv'r at th' downfal of Paul's Quire.
Say we not well, Agues will have their course?
Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse
The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer,
That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker
But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,
That plump Lyceus should grow lean this year?
Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grape-stone
Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon?
Which of the Muses or the Graces all,
Did ere for Claret or Canary call?
114
How the brisk Wine gives Horns to the poor man?
And if you have no greater care, no doubt
You'l find the Claret will revive your Gout,
And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul
Cry out for help to save thy Pedestal;
Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,
Practise worse tunes than Organs ever toot.
This is a vain presage; thou say'st, the Dead
Have out-liv'd this, and have no Gout to dread.
But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,
Heark how the dead mans bum does let a fart.
When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,
'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum;
To vote her of the Babylonish Crew;
And set the Furies on her with ha-loo.
This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;
Had Dina kept at home, shee'd sav'd her Honor.
But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be;
But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me?
Dost think thy Son so sanguine and insano,
To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano.
This I should leave to any of the Crew,
You may believe me though I were a Jew.
And may my breath be still perfum'd, why not?
Since dead Corps smell when they begin to rot.
115
And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly,
That it did seem to top the very Sky;
And though he may have reason to be proud,
Instead of Juno did imbrace a Cloud;
May he resume King Davids Harp and play
The Tarantul' of discontent away.
That it did seem to top the very Sky;
And though he may have reason to be proud,
Instead of Juno did imbrace a Cloud;
May he resume King Davids Harp and play
The Tarantul' of discontent away.
If Denhams has so fouly bin betray'd,
And his Inclosure 'gainst his will survey'd:
May he recover all his Wits and more,
And with such keen Iambricks brand the Whore,
That all may dread it worse then loss of life,
To turn a Poet frantick for his Wife.
And his Inclosure 'gainst his will survey'd:
May he recover all his Wits and more,
And with such keen Iambricks brand the Whore,
That all may dread it worse then loss of life,
To turn a Poet frantick for his Wife.
Poor Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore,
It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.
Well may the bridge be down, when time doth meet
To press it with his Satyr cloven feet.
And thou with thy Apocopes art wont
To scater balls of thy Wild-fire upon't.
It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.
Well may the bridge be down, when time doth meet
To press it with his Satyr cloven feet.
And thou with thy Apocopes art wont
To scater balls of thy Wild-fire upon't.
But shall I not, kind Wild, remember thee,
Who hast bequeath'd me such a Legacie?
'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtile head;
Wills have no force till the Testator's dead;
And that none can have ought by thy bequest
Till thou art better dead then in a Jest:
Nor would I that in tenderness to me
Thou shoulst suspect thine own sufficiencie;
Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed,
'Tis Incest to ascend the Fathers bed.
What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child,
Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild.
And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see
His Covent's better than thy Nunnerie.
He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,
As thou, at his decease, but while he lives
All these good wishes, such as he can spare.
And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.
Who hast bequeath'd me such a Legacie?
'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtile head;
Wills have no force till the Testator's dead;
And that none can have ought by thy bequest
Till thou art better dead then in a Jest:
Nor would I that in tenderness to me
Thou shoulst suspect thine own sufficiencie;
116
'Tis Incest to ascend the Fathers bed.
What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child,
Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild.
And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see
His Covent's better than thy Nunnerie.
He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,
As thou, at his decease, but while he lives
All these good wishes, such as he can spare.
And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.
May every Knight about us, that's inclind,
Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind.
Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee,
And be so paid for all in Verse as he.
May the poor Scholar ne're want Sunday Pudden,
When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden.
May thy afflicted Toe ne're feel the Gout;
Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout;
That thou maiest yet (at last) once more Protest
That Recipe wants no Probatum est.
Maist thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;
May I have brains to answer it agen.
May all that are of such good wishes sullen,
Live till their good Friends bury them in Woolen.
Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind.
Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee,
And be so paid for all in Verse as he.
May the poor Scholar ne're want Sunday Pudden,
When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden.
May thy afflicted Toe ne're feel the Gout;
Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout;
That thou maiest yet (at last) once more Protest
That Recipe wants no Probatum est.
Maist thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;
May I have brains to answer it agen.
May all that are of such good wishes sullen,
Live till their good Friends bury them in Woolen.
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