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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Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley. |
 | Iter boreale |  |
117
Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley.
Honestly done however, though the Stuff
You sent be course the measure's large enough.
The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,
The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass:
But now to pledge thee I am not inclin'd,
You Sons o'th Church are for large draughts I find.
Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free
In sending such a brimmer unto me,
That Sunday last, long of that frolick bout,
Thy Parish had but half a glass I doubt.
Besides the drink is small, you've chang'd your gill,
I wish you'd kept in your hogs-head still.
Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit
To cool the stomack, though not help the wit;
And that might be thy case: for certainly
Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry;
Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain
To cast them undigested up again.
You sent be course the measure's large enough.
The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,
The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass:
But now to pledge thee I am not inclin'd,
You Sons o'th Church are for large draughts I find.
Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free
In sending such a brimmer unto me,
That Sunday last, long of that frolick bout,
Thy Parish had but half a glass I doubt.
Besides the drink is small, you've chang'd your gill,
I wish you'd kept in your hogs-head still.
Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit
To cool the stomack, though not help the wit;
And that might be thy case: for certainly
Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry;
Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain
To cast them undigested up again.
Twelve lines return'd the very same, that I
Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply;
Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread
There is some Eccho in thine empty head:
Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so
The young one learneth of the old to crow.
Nay my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck,
I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck:
Now prethee Chick beware, for though I find
That thou art right and of the fighting kind,
Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel
My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel.
Take this advice before you mean to fight,
Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite.
Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,
Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tayl;
And thereby hangs another Tayl, I find
Thy subtil nose hath got my breech i'th' wind.
If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break,
A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make.
Hark, hark, saist thou, he let a fart! what though?
It breaths forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow;
Nor is there any Statute of our Nation
That sayes, in five miles of a Corporation
If any Outed-man a Fart should vent,
That you should apprehend the Innocent.
If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot,
What had you said if I had bullets shot?
Fye man! our mouths were stopped long ago,
And would you have us silent too below?
Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply;
118
There is some Eccho in thine empty head:
Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so
The young one learneth of the old to crow.
Nay my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck,
I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck:
Now prethee Chick beware, for though I find
That thou art right and of the fighting kind,
Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel
My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel.
Take this advice before you mean to fight,
Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite.
Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,
Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tayl;
And thereby hangs another Tayl, I find
Thy subtil nose hath got my breech i'th' wind.
If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break,
A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make.
Hark, hark, saist thou, he let a fart! what though?
It breaths forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow;
Nor is there any Statute of our Nation
That sayes, in five miles of a Corporation
If any Outed-man a Fart should vent,
That you should apprehend the Innocent.
If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot,
What had you said if I had bullets shot?
Fye man! our mouths were stopped long ago,
And would you have us silent too below?
119
But I displaid my bum before thyne eyes
Unkindly thou saist, I say otherwise;
For there thou mightst have thy resemblance took,
Dead mens blind cheeks do very wanley-look.
And For the crack it gave, that did but mind thee,
To strive to leave a good report behind thee.
As for the gall which in your Ink appears,
That in our sufferings we are Volunteers;
I'le not say much, I have more wit than so,
'Tis scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:
But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip
Your Brothers back which you did help to strip.
Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before,
Who kil'd those, whom his Cov'nant had made sore.
And you know who they were that gave the blow,
And then cry'd, Prophesie who smote thee so?
We durst not keep our Livings for our lives,
But they must needs go whom the Devil drives.
Yea but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,
And would not work in one, nor th' other keep.
Unkindly thou saist, I say otherwise;
For there thou mightst have thy resemblance took,
Dead mens blind cheeks do very wanley-look.
And For the crack it gave, that did but mind thee,
To strive to leave a good report behind thee.
As for the gall which in your Ink appears,
That in our sufferings we are Volunteers;
I'le not say much, I have more wit than so,
'Tis scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:
But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip
Your Brothers back which you did help to strip.
Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before,
Who kil'd those, whom his Cov'nant had made sore.
And you know who they were that gave the blow,
And then cry'd, Prophesie who smote thee so?
We durst not keep our Livings for our lives,
But they must needs go whom the Devil drives.
Yea but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,
And would not work in one, nor th' other keep.
I answer. No great Harvest yet appears,
I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears.
And though the Foxes breed, what need you care,
When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are.
I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears.
And though the Foxes breed, what need you care,
When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are.
120
For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cryes,
Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.
Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,
To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee.
Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,
When stak'd at Ticktack, soon be plaid away.
Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,
And friendly part, as we did friendly meet.
Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me,
Accept this Litany I send to thee.
Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.
Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,
To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee.
Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,
When stak'd at Ticktack, soon be plaid away.
Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,
And friendly part, as we did friendly meet.
Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me,
Accept this Litany I send to thee.
May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joyn'd,
As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrin'd;
May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphear
Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;
May that blest Life credit Conformitie,
And make e'ven Puritans to honour thee.
Maist thou to Christ such store of Converts bring,
That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.
May God love you, and you love God again;
And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.
As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrin'd;
May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphear
Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;
May that blest Life credit Conformitie,
And make e'ven Puritans to honour thee.
Maist thou to Christ such store of Converts bring,
That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.
May God love you, and you love God again;
And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.
| Iter boreale | |