The Grateful Non-Conformist; OR, A RETURN of THANKS To Sir JOHN BABER Knight, and Doctor of Physick who sent the AUTHOR Ten Crowns.
TEn Crowns at once! and to one man! and he
As despicable as bad Poets be!
Who scarce had wit, if you requir'd the same,
To make an Anagram upon your name;
Or to out-run a Badger, or prepare
An Epitaph to serve a Quinb'rough-May'r:
A limping-Levite, who scarce in his prime
Could woo an Abigail, or say Grace in Rime:
Ten Crowns to such a thing! Friend, 'tis a Dose
Able to raise dead Ben, or Dav'nant's Nose;
Able to make a Courtier turn a Friend,
And more then all of them in Victuals spend.
This free Free-Parli'ment, whose Gifts do sound
Full five and twenty hundred thousand pound,
You have out-done them, Sir; yours was your own,
And some of It shall last when Theirs is gone.
Ten Crowns at once! and now at such a time,
When love to such as I am, is a Crime
Greater than his recorded in Jane Shore,
Who gave but one poor Loaf to the starv'd Whore:
What now to help a Non-Conformist! now,
When Ministers are broke, that will not bow:
When 'tis to be unblest, to be ungirt;
To wear no Surplice, does deserve no Shirt:
No Broth, no Meat; no Service, no Protection;
No Cross, no Coyn; no Collect, no Collection:
You are a daring Knight, thus to be kind:
If trusty Roger get it in the Wind,
He'll smell a Plot, a Presbyterian Plot,
Especially for what you gave the [Scot:]
And if the Spiritual Court take fire from Crack,
They'l clap a Parritor upon your Back,
Shall make you shrug, as if you wore the Collar
Of a Cashiered Red-Coat, or poor Scholar.
What will you plead, Sir, if they put you to 't?
Was it the Doctor or the Knight did do 't?
Did you, as Doctor, flux some Usurer,
And with your Physick his dull Silver stir?
Or did your Zeal you a Knight-Templar make,
To give the Church the Booties you should take?
Or, was it your desire to beg Applause,
Or shew affection to the GOOD OLD CAUSE?
Was't to feed Faction, or uphold the stickle
Between the Old Church and New Conventicle?
No, none of these; but I have hit the thing,
It was because You knew I lov'd the King.
Ten Crowns at once! Sir, you'l suspected be
For no good Protestant, you are so free:
So much at once! Sure you ne'er gave before;
Or else, I doubt, mean to do so no more:
This is enough to make a man protest
Religio Medici to be the best.
The Christians for whose sakes we are undone,
Would have cry'd out, O'tis too much for one
Either to give or take! What needs this waste?
O how they love to have us keep a Fast!
Five private Meetings (whereat each four Men
In black Coats and white Caps (you'l call them then
A Teem of Ministers) have tugg'd all day,
Deserving Provender, but scarce got Hay;
Where I my self have drawn my part some hours)
Have not afforded such return as yours,
I'd wish them watch, and keep me sober still;
Not want of guilt in them, nor want of Will
In me, but want of Wine does make me lame,
Or else I'd sacrifice them to the flame
Of an high-blazing Satyr; here's a Man
Who ne'er pretended at your Rates, yet can
More freely feed us with Coyn and good Dishes
Than they, yet that is their Alms, sighs and wishes.
O for a Rapture! how shall I describe
The love of thousands to their Reading Tribe?
Who so maintain'd them when they lost their Places,
They did not lose one Pimple from their Faces;
But after all, full fraught with Flesh and Flagon,
Came forth like Monks, or Priests of Bell and Dragon:
One would have judg'd, by their high looks and smells,
They had layn-in in Cellars, not in Cells;
Where they grew big and batten'd: for without doubt
Some that went Firkins in, came Hogsheads out.
But ours in two years time are Skin and Bones,
And look like Granhams, or old Apple-Johns:
One Lazarus amongst us was too much;
But er't be long, we all shall look like such;
And when that comes to pass, the World shall see
Who are the Ghostly Fathers, They or We:
And then our Bellies, without better fare,
Will prove as empty as their Noddles are.
Though We be silent, our Guts won't be so;
But make a Conventicle as they go:
Peace, Colon, peace, and cease thy croaking din;
Thou art condemd'd to be a Chitterlin.
Nigardly Puritans! blush at the odds
Betwixt their BONNER's, and our meagre DOD's;
You give your Drink in Thimbles, they in Bowls;
Your Church is poor St. Faiths, but theirs is POWLS:
And whilst you Priests and Altars do despise,
Your selves prove Priests, and we your Sacrifice.
But why do I permit my Muse to whine?
I wish my Brethren all such Cheeks as mine;
And those that wish them well, such Hearts as thine.
My Noble BABER! I have chosen you
For my Physician, and my Champion too:
Give me sometimes but such a Dose, and I
Will ne'er wish other Cordial till I die:
And then proclaim you a most Valiant Knight;
Shew but such Metal, though you never fight.
FINIS.
London, Printed in the Year 1665.