Iter Boreale, to the Presbyterian Party. OR, Doctor Wildes Recantation from his Reformed Study, to Mr Calamy in Aldermanbury.
THis Page I send you, (Good Sir) to rejoice
That from a Grate I heard thy Newgate-voice.
O may all Pulpit-Railers have such places,
To shew their Ears in Text, and splay-mouth'd Faces!
Nor need to Steeple upon Steeple set;
But in a string sooner to Heaven get!
I cann't behold you take into your gills
Rebellious doses, as men swallow pills;
Nor let you swim again in Royal Blood,
Whilest Loyal Souls are drowned in a flood
Of briny tears, which fitter deemed are
For your Repentance Stool than Peter's Chair:
If Peter's chains your fury cann't restrain,
Let Judas's halter be your curbing Rein;
Let all your Sermons raise you to such Honours;
And may you feel worse flames than cruel Bonners:
May all your Brethren poor Erraticks be,
And (like fixt Stars) the sacred Bishops see
Immoveable within their glorious Spheres,
Who ravish (like the tunefull Orbs) all ears
With their harmonious Doctrines; whilest all stare
At you, as Meteors hanging in the Air:
Or if you're turn'd out of your House and Home,
To a safe Habitation you may come,
Ycleep'd a Gaol, whilest your shame and disgrace
Rises both from your crime, and from the place.
Although reproach and injury was done
By an Eclipse to the prelatique Sun,
He onely by that black upon his brow
Allur'd Spectators more; but so don't you,
Whose lowring aspect, whose prodigious look,
Clouded with malecontent, cann't Bishop brook,
Nor King; but, like a Comet, does presage
A Monarch's Tragedy on Englands Stage.
May every Rod you feel, a Scorpion prove;
And may you be by Hells black Gaoler drove.
Into the deep Abyss. If you are there,
Newgate must needs a Hell on Earth appear.
Indeed the place does for your presence call;
'Tis that which makes it Newgate most of all.
Thanks to the Bishop, and his good Lord Mayor,
Who would not let the Church, a House of Prayer,
Be made a Den of Thieves; their Prudence knew
What Cage was fittest for such Birds as you,
Who (like the railing Thief) dare Christ revile,
Slay Gods Anointed, and his Churches spoil.
Now Sir, were I to write your Mittimus,
The world should know soon why thou'rt dealt with thus:
The Gaoler, like a Prisoner at the Bar,
Should set thee forth, and what thy offences are
Proclaim, and prove, That being dead in Law,
(As if you car'd not for that death a straw)
You walk'd, haunted your Church, thinking to scare
Away the Reader and his Common-Prayer;
And with your Alphabet of Faces fright
Your Auditors, worse than a Fiend or Spright
Rais'd from the Shades: Nor did you onely walk,
But (like a Puritan) much nonsence talk.
Dead, and yet Faction preach? these Kirk's vile Slaves
Will preach Rebellion in their very Graves.
You said the Ark was lost, and told a story,
That Israel divorc'd was from its Glory:
The Ark's not safe with you, till Royal Blood
Support it like the waves of Noah's Flood:
You'l not the Dove with th' Olive-branch of Peace
Receive, nor from your late Rebellions cease.
Item, you play'd the Thief, and if't be so,
Good reason (Sir) to Newgate you should go;
And when you're there, none need to swear you are
The greatest Pick-pocket that e're came there.
But your great Theft you acted in your Church:
I do not mean you did your Sermon lurch;
That's a small crime with you; but you did pray
And preach, that you might steal the hearts away
Of Loyal Subjects, Viper-like, and eat
Your Mother Churches bowels: This strange feat,
This Felony deserv'd imprisonment.
What? cann't you Non-Conformists be content
Sermons to make, but you must prate them too?
They that your places have do Preach, not you.
Thirdly, 'tis prov'd, when you pray most devout,
You leave the (Reverend Fathers) Bishops out:
Well then may Learned Sheldons powerfull spell
Conjure, and lay you safe in Newgate Hell;
For (to display my thoughts) there cannot be
Prepared for you better Company
Than Roaring Boyes; sure mirth you cannot want,
Whilest they so loud do sing, and you do cant.
But I'm confin'd too to as bad a place;
Let's then for Sympathy compare our case:
For if in suffering we do both agree,
Sir, I may challenge you to pity me.
I am the older Gaol-bird; my hard fate
Hath kept me twenty years in Cripplegate;
And were all I deserve conferr'd on me,
Thence had I carried been to th' Gallow-tree.
My Limbs with th' Presbyterian Gout do ake,
He my fat Body for the Kirk does take,
Where he resides and tortures every Limb
That wont against the Head rebel with him;
And causes me against the Church to prove
So stiff, that I one Article cann't move:
An Enemy to Common-Prayer, he
Hath from't these twenty years suspended me:
And in my station if he find me painfull,
I'm sure to go to the Repentance Stool.
He binds up, looseth, sets up, and pulls down,
Pretends he draws the Humors from the Crown:
But I am sure he maketh such adoe,
His Humours ttouble Head and Members too.
He hath me now in hand, and ere he goes,
I fear for Hereticks hee'l burn my Toes.
O I would give all I am worth, a Fee,
That from his Jurisdiction I were free.
Now, Sir, you find our sufferings do agree;
The Bishop clapt up you, the Kirk hath me.
But oh! the difference too is very great,
You are allow'd to walk, and drink, and eat:
I want them all, and never a peny get,
So much the Preslyter's against me set.
May then bad Angels and worse Women come
To make your Prison Hell, and bring your Doom:
And may it be so, till you do repent
Of that which caused your Imprisonment;
May, for the greater torture of your Lives,
The tortures of your Conscience (than your VVive's
VVhen she lies in) be worse, and may you see
Such bitter Satyres as now come from me.
I'l now subscribe, and play the Fool no more;
I'l keep my Parsonage e're I'l die poor:
And if by th' Kirk I'm ever more beguil'd,
Let the whole Universe proclaim me Wilde;
For if I don't conform unto the Miter,
I've made in vain my Boreale iter.
FINIS.