AN ANSWER TO Old Doctor Wild's New Poem, TO HIS OLD FRIEND, UPON THE NEW PARLIAMENT.
THus 'tis to stand Condemn'd by rigorous Fate
To the vile Plague of a Poetick Pate:
The Itch of Rhyming where it once does seize,
Becomes a more Incurable Disease
Than Pox or Scurvey: Harder 'tis to rout
WILD's Scribling humour, than to Charm his Gout.
An Old Man's twice a Child, I heard folks say,
But never more, than when he would seem Gay,
And does with Jingling Hobby-horses play:
When sprightly Fancy's gone, the doting Bungler
Mounts the brisk Muse, but proves an errant Fumbler;
Gets only Puling Verse, languid and thin,
Not to be call'd a Birth, but Souterkin.
Sorry dull Puns, and Nauseating Quibbles,
Worse than old Crab-i'th-wood, or Belman Scribbles.
[Page 2] Just so Sir Limber-ham that scarce can crawl,
Will on his Venus, and his Cupids call;
And drains Five hundred Pieces from his Purse
To keep a Miss, when more he wants a Nurse.
But tell me Reverend Songster! was it fit
Thy Doctorship should thus the Pulpit quit,
To Revel in such Babylonish Wit?
Thy very Friends when they thy Poem scan,
Say only—He's a Towardly old Man.
Though thou forgot'st thy Calling, Age, Degree,
This Subject sure should curb thy Levity
To treat of PARLIAMENTS at such a rate,
In fulsom Metaphors of Billings-gate,
Before th' August Illustrious Senate come,
And straight turn up, (sans shame,) thy Aged Bum
Deserves a Lash from the Black Rod at least
To make th' Old Baby smart for the lewd Jest,
Amongst so many Olds as thou dost trace,
'Tis strange the Good Old Cause obtain'd no place.
Then Poor Dissenter bravely might Ascend
Into a Pulpit from the Tables end,
And Hold forth Godly Sonnets to his Friend.
We all are Joy'd at present Face of Things,
And thank both Heav'ns kind Influence, and the Kings;
ROMES Vultures, nor the Gallick Cocks we fear,
Safe in our watchful Eagles Royal Care:
Yet love not to run mad, and Dance the Hay,
As stung (like thee) with a Tarantula:
VVho e're thy greazie Tale of Pork does view,
Suspects thee for the By-blow of a Jew.
Thy Grandam when she burnt th'old Stock, was cruel,
Not Bees but Wasps deserve to be made Fewel:
Good Housewives do not think her Method safe,
To Drive is better than to Burn by half;
[Page 3] But these Wild Sallies do too plainly show,
Thou dost but Cackle when thou thoughtst to Crow.
Treating of Richest Robes of State, and Ermin,
Thou just like some Pot-Poets Cozen German
Bethinks thee of th'own thred-bare Cloaths & Vermin.
Then cry'st to Longlane with them New put on;
Sweet Sir! 'tis timely thought of, may't be done.
But best make haste e're Ketches Wardrobe's gone.
Thinkst thou (WILD as thou art:) such Language meet
T'approach the Soveraign Legislative Seat?
Pardon Great Senate! that his Phrensy drew
Me to the Rudeness here of naming You.
The haughtiest Subjects tremble when they come
To Your Just Barr, and dread th' Impartial Doom.
Fair Copy of Heavens Policy! the same
Idaea that rules the Vniversal Frame,
VVhere Nobles, as the Fixed Stars do shine
In Honours Firmament; And Rays Divine
From Reverend Fathers of the Church are spread,
To strike both Schism and Superstition dead.
Next, Sages of the Law, as Planets trace
Their Circuits, to enliven in each place
Those needful ACTS which here are fram'd, and deal
Distributive Justice for the Publick weal.
Then COMMONS as full Constellations, joyn,
And their Wise Councels solemnly Combine,
VVhilst Sacred Majesty incircled round
VVith Native Glory, as the Sun, is found
Beaming his Acts of Grace so free and bright,
That all from Him borrow both Heat and Light.
Healing Assembly! whensoe're you meet,
The Peoples Choice, and the KINGS Wishes greet:
Their Liberties, His Honour, You mantain,
O let them ne'r be Differenc'd again!
Not Jostling those Below, nor them Above.
Let no False Fires their dazling Beams display,
Nor upstart Meteors interrupt your way:
All Your Debates let Moderation Calm,
And Your Results become the Nations Balm.
Those little Foxes that the Land Defile,
And seek our Vine and Tender Grapes to spoil,
Unkennel them; and let ROMES Conclave see,
In vain they PLOT, whilst You our Guardians be.
May Heaven all Your Consultations Bless,
And all Good Men pray for your wisht Success.
But our Old Buisie Rhymer we shall lose,
Who Hawks and Kites, and blind Buzzards pursues,
Until at last like a Bewildred Jolt-head,
His Muse has all her Borrowed Feathers moulted.
Age makes all stoop—How fast the Man descends?
Commences Doctor, and Poor Robin, Ends.
FINIS.