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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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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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29

UPON The much to be Lamented DEATH OF THE Reverend Mr. Vines.

Art thou gone too (thou great & gallant mind)
And must such Sneaks as I be left behind?
If thus our Horsemen and Commanders die,
What can the Infantry do then but fly?
Oh Divine Vines! tell us, why wouldst thou go,
Unless thou couldst have left thy Parts below?
If there's a Metempsuchosis indeed,
Tell us where we may find thee at our need?
Who hath thy Memory? thy Brain, thy Heart?
Whom didst thou leave thy Tongue? (for ev'ry part
Of thee can make a Man.) What if we find
(As I'l not swear this Age won't change her mind)
Prelacy (though her Lands are sold) revive?
Or Independency (who hopes to thrive,
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No where suits Trump) should dare dispute at length?
Where hast thou left thy Presbyterian Strength,
With which thou got'st the Game in th' Isle of Wight,
Where the King cry'd that Vines was in the right?
When Essex dy'd (the Honour of our Nation)
Thou gav'st him a new life in thy Oration.
But when great Fairfax to his Fate shall yield,
Whom hast thou left—to fetch from Naseby-field
Th' Immortal Turf, and dress it with a Story,
That shall perpetuate his name and glory?
Where's thy rich Fancy (man?) To whom (beneath)
Didst thou thy lofty and high strain bequeath?
Tell us for thy own sake; for none but he
That hath thy Wit, can write thy Elegie.
Till he be found, let this suffice, which I
Leave on thy Stone:—Here lies the Ministry.
R. W.
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