THE MOCK-ELOGIE ON THE FUNERAL OF Mr. Caryl; Gloriously solemnized, February 25th. 1672/3. by an unparallell'd Concourse and Attendance of all Sorts and Sects of People.
BLess me! what's here? a motley-throng;
Presbyters, Sectarists among;
Quakers, with Kiffin and J. O.
Ranters, with Praise-god Bare-bones too.
Here's a new Annus Mirabilis,
A Miracle This Rabble is;
Hanging on one string together,
And All to Church now coming hither:
A Reformation, sudden as strange:
What is't has made this happy change?
Flocking to Church now, One and All?
Oh! 'tis old Caryls Funeral.
Quakers once call'd him Antichrist,
And Prebyterian-limb o'th' Beast.
All sects, but one, us'd to defie him,
And would not, whilst he liv'd, come nigh him.
Caryl has made Church-converts more,
Being dead, than ere he did before.
All these sects are one Heteroclite,
That worship God chiefly for spite:
To Church they'l not refuse to go,
So they may thence their malice show;
And boast the numbers of their Party,
And that the Old Cause still is hearty.
These Pharisees, for th' esteem of men,
Pray, Bury, Preach; All to be seen.
All th' modern Orthodox together;
Wild with his Gout too could hop thither
To get new Cloak, for writing Verse,
Pin'd, like a Coat of Arms, to th' Herse:
Like to those snivelling Elogies
He made upon the Rebels, Twisse,
Palmer next, Burroughes, Hill, Gouge, White,
With Whitaker, who (Wild says) did fight
As far as York, with Cavaleers,
And Routed them, with Prayers and tears.
Well fought Don Quixot: else Wild lyes:
(I had it truly 'mongst his storyes;)
Where, in Blasphemous Elogies,
He praises Rebels to the skies,
And Milton's hackney-Pen out-vies,
On their Ʋrnes offering sacrifice.
Wild, like the Pope, erects an Altar
For Traitors that deserv'd an Halter.
The Pope Saints Loyola: Wild Saints Knox,
With the rebellious Orthodox,
Perne, Marshal, Robinson and Strong,
Peters, Caryl, the rest among.
The Assembly now are every one
Call'd to their last account and gone.
Caryl bringing the Rear up, thus
Lieutenant to Smectymnuus.
Where art thou Iter Boreale?
Whilst we thus weep, come, tell what ayle we:
Thou! that, when Hugh Peter's dy'd,
With dirty Rhimes him deifi'd;
Placing him, in the skies, next Star
To th' General of our Holy-war
Essex: Oh Essex! says this Poet,
Begging o'th' Parliament a Vote,
That All, as Malignants, should be try'd,
Who smil'd that year that Essex dy'd.
Wild shall Saint both Bawd and Whore;
If Baber give him ten crowns more.
For half-ten crowns, he shall in Rhime,
God and his own Father Blaspheme;
And King, Church, Parliament abuse,
For twelve-pence with his Ballad-Muse:
And make a whining Elogie
On Father Gray-beard, Gregorie.
He, a dead wench, a star did make
For one crown, and her Father's sake;
Saying, if th' wench had been a whore,
It should have cost him as much more.
Wild had good Glebe, but did fore-go it,
To be a Bartlemew Babe (and Poet.)
Therefore unfit for the Priest's office,
From which St. Paul rejects the Novice.
Wild's Cassock's turn'd, (to tell you true,)
To Frocks cut out o'th' Aprons blue:
A Linsey-woolsey Clergy-man,
A Holder-forth like Julian:
A Holy-cheat in meeter, Thus
Asinum scalpat Asinus.
Have you not seen a Mountebank's fool sometimes
Duck-quoy men in, with Trumpet and with Rhimes?
Jack-pudden Wild for Customers thus stickles,
He's Merry-Andrew to the Conventicles.
London! by Plagues, learn to be wise:
These Rebels have enflam'd thee twice:
With Tumults these did thee enflame,
To punish which the fire came;
God took the Rod and laid it on
For unrepented sedition.
Lay not the blame on this, or that;
On Papists, and I know not what:
Blame thy still-repeated-sin,
Faction that lyes yet within.
Look this day on this factious Crew,
They All are of a Different hue:
Their Features have a several Grace,
Yet now they seem to have one face.
What brings to Church All these sects now?
Right Hypocrites! All's for a show.
How came all sects thus to combine?
Oh! I can tell you, 'tis designe
Which makes them All agree in one,
In what d'ye think? in Sedition.
Sure Hell's broke loose, for here we have
Strange Ghosts now walking to the Grave:
Heavens keep us from this Stygian Race!
Are these the fruits of Acts of Grace?
E. H.