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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
Wild, Robert (1609-1679)

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Iter Boreale.
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XVI.
  
THE TRAGEDY OF Mr. Christopher Love, Late Minister of the Gospel;
  
UPON The much to be Lamented DEATH OF THE Reverend Mr. Vines.
  
TO THE MEMORY OF Mr. Jeremy Whitaker,
  
On his Preaching.
  
UPON THE DEATH OF So many Reverend Ministers of late.
  
AN ELOGY UPON THE Earl of Essex HIS FUNERAL.
  
To the Father of a very vertuous Virgin, Deceased; who desired an obscure Person to make an Elegy, &c.
  
IN MEMORY Of Mris E. T.
  
AN EPITAPH Upon E. T.
  
UPON The Learned Works of the Reverend DIVINE Ed. Reynolds, D. D.
  
Another.
  
Aliud.
  
AN EPITAPH For a Godly Mans Tomb.
  
AN EPITAPH For a Wicked Mans Tomb.
  
[From a kind Hand there came t' enrich a place]
  
Alas poor Scholar, VVhither wilt thou go?
  
THE Norfolk and Wisbich.
  
UPON THE DEATH OF Dennis Bond, Esq;
  
Upon some Bottles of Sack and Claret, laid in Sand, and covered with a Sheet.
  
AN ESSAY Upon the late VICTORY obtained by His Royal Highness the Duke of York,
  
To the KING.
  
THE GRATEFUL NON-CONFORMIST:
  
A POEM UPON THE Imprisonment OF MR. CALAMY In NEWGATE.
  
ON THE DEATH OF MR. CALAMY,
  
The EPITAPH.
  
THE Loyal-Nonconformist;
  
THE RECANTATION Of A Penitent Proteus;
  
THE PORING DOCTOR,
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THE FAIR QUARREL.
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Mr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity.
  
Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley.
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Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild.
  
Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley.

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XI.

Presto-Jack Lambert, and his Sprights are gone
To dance a Jig with's brother Oberon:
George made him, and his Cut-throats of our lives,
Swallow their swords as Juglers do their Knives.
And Carter Disborough to wish in vain,
He now were Waggoner to Charls his Wain.
The Conqueror is now come into th' South,
Whose warm Air is made hot by every mouth;
Breathing his welcome, and in spite of Scot,
Crying—The whole Child (Sir) divide it not:
The Rump begins to stink; Alas! (cry they)
W'have rais'd a Devil which we cannot lay.
I like him not—His Belly is so big,
There's a King in't, cryes furious Hasilrig,
17

Let's bribe Him (they cry all) Carve him a share
Of our stoln Venison.—Varlets forbear,
In vain you put your Lime twigs to his Hands
George Monck is for the King, not for his Lands,
When fair means would not do, next foul they try,
Vote him the City Scavenger, (they cry)
Send him to scowr their Streets.—Well, let it be;
Your Rumpship wants a scowring too, (thinks he)
That foul house where your Worships many year
Have laid your Tail, sure wants a Scavenger:
I smell your Fizzle, though it make no Crack,
You'ld mount me on the Cities galled Back,
In hope she'll cast her Rider: If I must
Upon some Office in the Town be thrust,
I'le be their Sword-bearer,—and to their Dagger
I'le joyn my Sword:—Nay, (good Rump) do not swagger,
The City feasts me, and as sure as Gun)
I'le mend all Englands Commons e're I've done.
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