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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[1.]
107
Mr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity.
So the bright Taper useless burnsTo private and recluded Urns.
So Pearls themselves to shels confine,
And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,
As thou my WILD while thou dost lye
Huddled up in thy privacy,
And only now and then dost send
A Letter to thy private Friend;
Take once again thy Lyre, and so
Let thy selected Numbers flow,
As when thy solemn Muse did prove
To sing the Funeral of Love;
Or, as when with the Trump of fame
Thou didst sound forth great George's name,
In such a strain, as might it be,
Did speak thy self as great as he.
For while great Cowley seeks the shade,
And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;
When Davnant's weary Quill lies by,
And yeelds no more of Lumbardy;
108
By Wild led int' a Nunnerie;
While thus Apollo's Priests retire,
The Females do begin t' aspire,
Pretending they have found a flaw
In great Apollo's Salique Law;
These grasp at Lawrel, only due
To such as I have nam'd, and you.
Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley.
What jolly Shepherds voice is this
Would tempt me from my private bliss,
After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder
Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs in fairer dayes
We sate secure, and sang the Praise
Of our great Pan, whose care did keep
The pleasent Shepherds and their Sheep?
Is this a time with wanton strains
To whistle forth the Nymphs and Swains
To sport amd dance, while Wolf and Fox
Lye lurking to devour our Flocks,
And Romes Sheep-stealers ready stand
To give them their red letters brand?
Would tempt me from my private bliss,
After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder
Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,
Under whose boughs in fairer dayes
We sate secure, and sang the Praise
Of our great Pan, whose care did keep
The pleasent Shepherds and their Sheep?
Is this a time with wanton strains
To whistle forth the Nymphs and Swains
To sport amd dance, while Wolf and Fox
Lye lurking to devour our Flocks,
And Romes Sheep-stealers ready stand
To give them their red letters brand?
Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son,
What th' Plague and Fire have lately done?
London hath sent up such a smoke,
As may the Angels voices choake,
And make tears big enough, to vent
Tears in a deluge, to lament
The raging fury of that Flame,
But more of those that made the same.
And when St. Paul has lost his Quire,
'Twere Sacriledge to touch my Lyre.
None but a monster Nero may
Over a burning City play.
Nor would I sing, were I a Jew,
To please a Babylonish Crew.
Now since the time for sorrow cryes,
In this I freely temporize.
So the bright Starrs draw in their light,
When Clouds club for an ugly night.
So all the Birds of Musick sleep
On stormy dayes, and Silence keep.
So frost-nipt Roses droop and fall,
Perfuming their own funerall.
So you have seen a well-tun'd Lyre
Swelling it self with grief and ire.
In gloomy air, each heart-broke string
Its own last passing-bell doth ring.
So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds,
Our softer Muses Musick drownds.
Sir, by my many soes you know
My Poetry is but so so.
But why dost thou disdain or fear,
That Female brows should Lawrel wear?
Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree
It self was made out of a shee?
The Muses and the Graces all
We of the Female Gender call;
And so if you have not more care,
You'l find the Furies likewise are.
What th' Plague and Fire have lately done?
109
As may the Angels voices choake,
And make tears big enough, to vent
Tears in a deluge, to lament
The raging fury of that Flame,
But more of those that made the same.
And when St. Paul has lost his Quire,
'Twere Sacriledge to touch my Lyre.
None but a monster Nero may
Over a burning City play.
Nor would I sing, were I a Jew,
To please a Babylonish Crew.
Now since the time for sorrow cryes,
In this I freely temporize.
So the bright Starrs draw in their light,
When Clouds club for an ugly night.
So all the Birds of Musick sleep
On stormy dayes, and Silence keep.
So frost-nipt Roses droop and fall,
Perfuming their own funerall.
So you have seen a well-tun'd Lyre
Swelling it self with grief and ire.
In gloomy air, each heart-broke string
Its own last passing-bell doth ring.
So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds,
Our softer Muses Musick drownds.
Sir, by my many soes you know
My Poetry is but so so.
But why dost thou disdain or fear,
That Female brows should Lawrel wear?
110
It self was made out of a shee?
The Muses and the Graces all
We of the Female Gender call;
And so if you have not more care,
You'l find the Furies likewise are.
Nor would I have you wonder why
Our Poets all amort do lye,
When Claret and Canary cease,
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.
Vintnars and Poets fall together,
If once the Ivey-Garland wither.
Our Poets all amort do lye,
When Claret and Canary cease,
The Wits will quickly hold their peace.
Vintnars and Poets fall together,
If once the Ivey-Garland wither.
Sweet Cowly thought (as well he might)
He should have shin'd in Phœbus sight;
But Clouds appear'd, and he that made
Account of Juno, found a shade;
And though on Davids Harp he plaid,
The evil Spirit can't be laid:
Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,
And his own Secretary proves.
He should have shin'd in Phœbus sight;
But Clouds appear'd, and he that made
Account of Juno, found a shade;
And though on Davids Harp he plaid,
The evil Spirit can't be laid:
Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,
And his own Secretary proves.
Your next mans temples Lawrel scorns;
Since greater pride his brows adorns.
He to Pernass. bears no good will,
Because it proves a horned hill.
The very thoughts whereof I dread
Will ne're be got out of his head.
Since greater pride his brows adorns.
He to Pernass. bears no good will,
Because it proves a horned hill.
The very thoughts whereof I dread
Will ne're be got out of his head.
Gondebert's silent, I suppose,
Because his Muse sings through the nose,
One syllable of which poor he
Did lose by an Apocope.
Because his Muse sings through the nose,
One syllable of which poor he
Did lose by an Apocope.
111
Wild sayes, kind Wanley you'r to blame
Amongst these Swans his Goose to name,
Yea though his lucky gagling yaul
Once help to save one Capital;
His love to Love then made him fear
His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear.
Next he did one a Loyal string
His Georgicks and his Carols sing;
But now because he cannot toot
To Organ tunes, he's made a mute;
And though alive, condemn'd to death:
Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath,
Although perfum'd and hot does come,
To blow wind in a dead mans bumb;
Yet as a greateful Legacy,
He leaves to thee his Nunnery,
Not doubting but if need require
Thou'lt prove an able loving Fryar.
Amongst these Swans his Goose to name,
Yea though his lucky gagling yaul
Once help to save one Capital;
His love to Love then made him fear
His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear.
Next he did one a Loyal string
His Georgicks and his Carols sing;
But now because he cannot toot
To Organ tunes, he's made a mute;
And though alive, condemn'd to death:
Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath,
Although perfum'd and hot does come,
To blow wind in a dead mans bumb;
Yet as a greateful Legacy,
He leaves to thee his Nunnery,
Not doubting but if need require
Thou'lt prove an able loving Fryar.
| Iter boreale | |