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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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I.

The day is broke! Melpomene, be gone;
Hag of my Fancy, let me now alone:
Night-mare my Soul no more; Go take thy flight
Where Traitors Ghosts keep an eternal night;
Flee to Mount Caucasus, and bear thy part
With the black fowl that tears Prometheus heart
For his bold Sacriledg: Go fetch the groans
Of defunct Tyrants, with them croke thy Tones;
6

Go see Alecto with her flaming whip,
How she sinks Nol, and makes old Bradshaw skip:
Go make thy self away,—Thou shalt no more
Choak up my Standish with the blood and gore
Of English Tragedies: I now will chuse
The merriest of the nine to be my Muse:
And come what will, I'le scribble once again:
The brutish Sword hath cut the nobler Vein
Of racy Poetry. Our small-drink-times
Must be contented, and take up with Rhimes.
They'r sorry toyes from a poor Levites pack,
Whose Living and Assesments drink no Sack.
The Subject will excuse the Verse (I trow)
The Ven'son's fat, although the crust be dough.
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