The wild goose chas'd.

THE WILD GOOSE CHASD. SIxteenthly; then beloved, it is ſo, Out of John Calvin's Reliques Poets grow; Who, when their Pulpit plots are out of date, With Puny Ballads will infeſt the State. As Neſſus when's approaching Fate he ſpy'd, Reſolv'd to do ſome miſcheif e're he dy'd. Old Hydra, once at that prodigious height As to endure no wrong, nor do no right, Rais'd by fond errour of miſguided zeal, To trample on both King and Commonweal, Breaths her laſt dying groans now; and we ſee Has here found one to write her Elegie; One, who in time, I hope, need not deſpair To be Bard Laureat to a Quinborough Mayor, Unleſs a dreadful Halter intervene, Curing his lame toes of their gouty pain; One, who, if he proceed will never fail Clio to court inſtead of Abigail; One, who not yet forgetting through his Noſe To cant out Treaſon in dull heavy proſe, Although condemned to be ſilent, will Reiterate in Rithmes that Doctrine ſtill; Who ecchoes out ten Crowns with ſuch alarms As if he had both Indies in his arms. Thoſe torrid Regions, whoſe black, ſquallid face Such never to b • valued gemms do grace; Or bellowing to a crew of Crops, —even now, To help the Lord againſt the mighty, go; One, who might very well ſerve old Pope Sam. To write Encomiums on each Sainted Name In his fair rubrick of New Martyrs; than 'Twould be like Poet, like Hiſtorian. Hee's the firſt Poet, and perhaps laſt too, Which on Geneva's dunghill ever grew. We've here a Doctor Poet, Doctor Knight, A true Veſpaſian as e're ſaw the light: Who thinks ten Growns ſmell well, though from the ſcore Of fluxing ſome old painted, pocky W— The yielding Siſters turn not up their eyes, They have forgot to ſend their old ſupplies To Holders-forth; that golden age is gone, And you are left in Hopkins Rithmes to mone Or raile, like envious dogs, becauſe the Moon Above their reach doth undiſturbed run. Good Dr. Crackt-brains pray your anger ſpare, Becauſe no Pimples do fall to your ſhare, Except ith' Codpiece; if ſo, I aſſure you, Get or the Doctor or the Knight to cure you. That on your ribs and hatchet faces there Can ſtick no fleſh at all; you ever were Legitimate Calves of Pharaoh's pincht-gut Kine, Devouring all, and yet were ever lean; Your tribe more cruelty once practized Then ever Trajan, ever Decius did, Yet you pretended to be Chriſtians; right, (Setting aſide their ignorance oth' true light) Both dare to write to ſay and think I ſhall, They had more real Virtue then you all. Trajan no Trajan was to his own Sect, Fierce Diocleſian did his own protect; You being Chriſtians, Chriſtians did undoe, Yea beter Chriſtians then the beſt of you. And if that fatal Leproſie by Hell Of never thinking never ſpeaking well, Was not entail'd upon you, you would own The diſproportion'd grace kind Heaven ſhowrd down, On them, who, though by you thruſt out of all, And kept out twice ten years, did never fall So low as ſome of you; you preacht away All Charity and good works, and now can ſay Your wiſer berd do ſleight you; you may all By your own Engine like Perillus fall. As in the Babylonian Tyrants reign Did thriving Daniel, ours return again Plump cheekt, without Mechanick arts; they ſay You pick Tobacco for a groat a day, And look like Ghoſts (for which no body's ſorry) Pickled a century in Purgatory, Crying, when ſhall we ſee that happy day That ſweet Sack-poſſets frequent were as Whey; A race far worſe then Vipers, who do tare Their Mother's guts, but to enjoy the air; Theſe would again their Native Land deſtroy, To ſet up that blind cheating ſenſleſs toy The Covenant, or their now-contemned cauſe. Who ſtudy ſtill to contradict the Lawes. Baſe, croſs-grain'd, ſullen, peeviſh wretches, who Though they're undone, ſtrive others to undoe; Yet they were ſtill Jack-calls to find the end Whereby a bitious ſpirits might aſcend. Nero did-fire his Rome, 'tis plainly ſeen To ſatisfie his mirth, and not his ſpleen; But theſe to gratifie their laſting hate Did, and endeavour ſtill t'in flame the State. And Doctor Poet give me leave with you, Ere we have done to ſpeak a Word or two; If you againſt your Brethren thus do write, You'l ſpoil your Iter Boreale quite; High blazing Satyrs do not pleaſe this age, Droll now is thought the beſt Poetick rage. It wont to be in Pulpits, now in Rithmes And on the Stage; oh manners! oh the times! However, if the Poverty, 〈◊〉 the Pox. Welſh Gout ſhow you tricks, And Charon waft you over muddy Styx, (For your amphibious Doctor ſent you coine Againſt your journey to procure ſome wine) That all may know you were a man of ſtrife, I'le write your Epitaph, and old Clearke your Life. FINIS.