Doctor WILD's Squibs Return'd; Or,
Observations on his Counterfeit Thanks.
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HOw now my Wild? of Modesty forsook?
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Hath Liberty thy Reason Planet-strook?
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Good Manners, that grown scarse too? has thy Z[e]al
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Devour'd all Civility at a Meal?
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Doth none remain? is Wild turn'd Hector too?
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Making the Stars of Heav'n and Earth to bow
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Under thy Whipcord? or, hast thou Beadle hight?
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To lash Star-students coming in thy sight,
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Because they are but Men, and do not know,
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Kings Hearts as well as God that made them so
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Old Merlin's Genius haunts thee, or thy Crown
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Could never be so grossly over-grown
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With dull Stupidity. Is there no mean
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Between the Doubtful, and the Epicoene?
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Must men be Fools or Witches? can't Medics know
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Approaching Ills, but just the hour too?
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How Stars incline, for Mortals is enough;
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What Fates compell, none but the Gods above
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Can well declare; we'll not presumptuous be:
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To know in part, is Man's Felicity.
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Yet, should Astrologers write all they know,
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They would be then reputed Wild, as thou;
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'Tis Treason, Wild, to touch Great things too nea[r]
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But Madmen of such Crimes stand not in fear:
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Thy croaking humor is return'd I see,
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Behold Phanatick Thanks for Liberty!
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Sure Mercury at thy Birth was in the Ram,
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In hostile ray of Mars, and thence it came,
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That thou didst thus disgorge thy troubled breast
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Which all the friendly Stars would have at rest.
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Some Opiate I advise thee for thy Health;
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Thy feav'rish Brain consumes thy spirits wealth.
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Bless thee from Madness, Wild! thy heat appears
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So strong 'gainst Bishops, 'thath increast my fears.
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But hark thee, Wild! what shall I fancie thee?
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A Theologue, or Spawn of Poetry?
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If a Divine, such Gravity should appear,
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As should be charming to each Heart, Eye, Ear;
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Such Olive Branches from thy Pen should spring
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As should beget a Love from every thing;
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Such blessed breathings from the sacred Quire,
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As kindle in all hearers Holy fire;
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Good Order then in Churches thou'dst approve,
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Not gibe at Bishops, but invoke their Love.
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But ah! my Wild, no such persuading Theme
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Art thou possest of, (scarsely in a dream)
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Thou'rt the Phanaticks Poet, and dost rant
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As high among them, as the best can cant;
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Singing of Thousand Quakers, that will fight,
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As loyally as angry Wild doth write.
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Thus utt'ring Squibs and Crackers, to provoke
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Some trifling Sheet to match thy smoak with smoak.
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No son of Saturn is my Wild I see,
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For then in private shades he'd quiet be;
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Nor fruit of Jove, for Jove is Juvans Pater,
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And helps, by's nourishing rays, our Alma Mater;
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Protects the Rev'rend Clergie, and maintains
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Religions rights against Phanatick Brains:
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Bright Phoebus knows him not, for Princes shine
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From his fair Beams; Wilds spots endarken him.
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The beauteous Cynthia in him claims no part,
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She's a mere stranger to the Poets Art:
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Besides, she's apt to change; wou'd Wild were so!
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That he from --- might good Church-man grow.
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To call him Son of Venus I not dare;
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And Hermes, nobly placed, will not care
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To own a Riming railer; 'tis hot Mars,
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Ill dignifi'd, begets Wild's Metre-wars:
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He should be placed too with Dragons tail,
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By th' poys'nous raptures that so fills his sail.
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Then Son of Thunder, Religious Boanerges,
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(Great Second unto Pious Doctor Burgess)
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Not Priest, but Minister, or Poetaster!
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Whose halting doggrel rimes come from him faster
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Than Holy Sermons; cease thy Canting strain,
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Give ease a little to thy tired Brain;
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No more abuse Grave Prelates, least the curse
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Of Schisme, Heresie, or some what worse,
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So closely cling unto thee, that thy Prayers
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Missing Heav'ns Blessing, stand in need of theirs.
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They are the Moysesses which daily do
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Sit in the gap to save such Souls as you.
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Is't Crime in them that you the Laws oppose,
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And must your obstinate stomach haulk at those?
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Youd be thought Loyal, and yet Prelates sting;
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None hate the Clergie that ere lov'd the King.
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But durst Wild be as bold with Majesty,
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As with the Bishops Holy Hierarchy;
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He would as briskly vomit forth his Gall,
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(As now 'gainst Bishops) 'gainst ye Monarchs all.
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So Wild farewell, thy person, parts I love;
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But mourn thy Principles no better prove.
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