An Ingenious Contention, by way of Letter, between / Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist.

<seg n="1" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">An Ingenious Contention, by way or Letter, between</hi></seg> <seg n="2" rend="left"><hi rend="italic">Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist.</hi></seg>

Dr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who was laid aside for Nonconformity. SO the bright Taper useless burns To private and recluded Urns. So Pearls themselves to shels confine, And Gems in the Seas bottom shine, [?] thou my WILD while thou dost lye Huddled up in thy privacy, [?]nd only now and then dost send Letter to thy private Friend; [T]ake once again thy Lyre, and so Let thy selected Numbers flow, As when thy solemn Muse did prove To sing the Funeral of Love; Or, as when with the Trump of fame Thou didst sound forth great Georges name, In such a strain, as might it be, Did speak thy self as great as he. For while great Cowley seeks the shade, And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid; When Davnants weary Quill lies by, And yeelds no more of Lombardy; While the sweet Virgin Muses be By Wild led int' a Nunnerie; While thus Apollos Priests retire, The Females do begin t' aspire, Pretending they have found a flaw In great Apollos Salique Law; These grasp at Lawrel, only due To such as I have nam'd, and you. Dr. Wild to the Ingenious Mr. Wanley. WHat jolly Shepherds voice is this Would tempt me from my private bliss After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder, Under whose boughs in fairer dayes We sate secure, and sang the praise Of our great Pan, whose care did keep The pleasant Shepherds and their Sheep? Is this a time with wanton strains To whistle forth the Nymps and Swains To sport and dance, while Wolf and Fox Lye lurking to devour our Flocks, And Romes Sheep-stealers ready stand To give them their red letters brand? Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son, What th Plague and Fire have lately done? London hath sent up such a smoke, As may the Angels voices choak, And make tears big enough, to vent Tears in a deluge, to lament The raging fury of that Flame, But more of those that made the same. And when St. Paul has lost his Quire, Sacriledge to touch my Lyre. None but a monster Nero may Over a burning City play. Nor would I sing, were I a Jew, To please a Babylonish Crew. Now since the time for sorrow cryes, In this I freely temporize. So the bright Starrs draw in their light, When Clouds club for an ugly night. So all the Birds of Musick sleep On stormy dayes, and silence keep. So frost-nipt Roses droop and fall, Perfuming their own funerall. So you have seen a well-tun'd Lyre Swelling it self with grief and ire. In gloomy air, each heart-broke string Its own last passing-bell doth ring. So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds, Our softer Muses Musick drownds. Sir, by my many soes you know My Poetry is but so so. But why dost thou disdain or fear, That Female brows should Lawrel wear? Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree [Thy]self was made out of a shee? The Muses and the Graces all We of the Female Gender call, And so if you have not more care, You'l find they Furies likewise are. [?] would I have you wonder why [?]s all amort do lye,

When Claret and Canary cease, The Wits will quickly hold their peace. Vintners and Poets fall together, If once the Ivy-Garland wither. Sweet Cowly thought (as well he might) He should have shin'd in Phoebus sight; But Clouds appear'd, and he that made Account of Juno, found a shade; And though on Davids Harp he plaid, The evil Spirit can't be laid: Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves, And his own Secretary proves. Your next mans temples Lawrel scorns; Since greater pride his brows adorns. He to Pernass. bears no good will, Because it proves a horned hill. The very thoughts whereof I dread Will ne're be got out of his head. Gondebert's silent, I suppose, Because his Muse sings through the nose, One syllable of which poor he Did lose by an Apocope. Wild sayes, Kind Wanley you'r to blame, Amongst these Swans his Goose to name, Yea though his lucky gagling Once helpt to save one Capital; His love to Love then made him fear His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear. Next he did on a Loyal string His Georgicks and his Carols sing. But now because he cannot toot To Organ tunes, he's made a mute; And though alive, condemn'd to death: Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath, Although perfum'd and hot does come, To blow wind in a dead mans bumb; Yet, as a grateful Legacy, He leaves to thee his Nunnery, Not doubting but if need require Thou'lt prove an able loving Fryar. 2. Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild. WHat sullen wary Shepherds voice is this, That won't be tempted from his private bliss, But arbor'd up in Eglantine, while Thunder Threatens to rend & rive that Oak in sunder, Under whose boughs himself in fairer dayes Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep At once the pleasant Shepherd & his Sheep? Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat, And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat? Is this a time for an inglorious sloth To hug it self, not daring to peep forth Into the open field, while th crafty Fox Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks, And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold, To fright the silly Sheep ev'n in their Fold? Dost thou not know what crops the Plague has made And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid? That if Heavens wrathful Anger thus proceed, There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed. London has sent up such a darkning smoak, And shall it too the Angels voices choak? Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we Shall never more thy publick Censers see? 'Tis Sacriledge to rob the Church; and thence Since you have stole your self, whats your offence? When the white Harvest for more Reapers cryes, How canst thou freely fit and temporize? So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night, When Phoebus pouders all his locks with light. So feral Birds delight to sit alone, Till the dayes glories are packt up and gone. So Roses fall in June when frosts are past, And on dull earth lye blushing out their last. So the Musician smothers his Sol fa, When he's entreated or to sing or play. So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat, Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat. And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire, And seems to shiv'r at th downfal of Pauls quire. Say we not well, Agues will have their course? Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer, That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker.

But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear, That plump Lyceus should grow lean this year? Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grape-stone Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon? Which of the Muses, or the Graces all, Did ere for Claret or Canary call? Is it not sung by the Venetian Swain How the brisk Wine gives horns to the poor man? And if you have not greater care, no doubt You'l find the Claret will revive your Gout, And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul Cry out for help to save thy Pedestall; Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot, Practise worse tunes than Organs ever toot. This is a vain presage, thou say'st; the Dead Have out-liv'd this, and have no Gout to dread. But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art, Heark how the dead mans bum does let a fart. When as my bashful Muse did to thee come, 'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum; To vote her of the Babylonish Crew; And set the Furies on her with ha-loo. This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her; Had Dina kept at home, shee'd sav'd her Honour. But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be; But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me? Dost think thy Son so sanguine & insano, To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano. This I should leave to any of the Crew, You may believe me though I were a Jew. And may my breath be still perfum'd, why not? Since dead Corps smell when they begin to rot. And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly, That it did seem to top the very Sky; And though he may have reason to be proud, Instead of Juno did imbrace a Cloud; May he resume King Davids Harp and play The Tarantul of discontent away. If Denham has so fouly been betray'd, And his Inclosures gainst his will survey'd: May he recover all his Wits and more, And with such keen Iambicks brand the Whore, That all may dread it worse than loss of life, To turn a Poet frantick for his Wife. Poor Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore, It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more. Well may the bridge be down, when Time doth meet To press it with his Satyr cloven-feet. And thou with thy Apocopes art wont To scatter balls of thy Wild-fire upon't. But shall I not, kind Wild, remember thee, Who hast bequeath'd me such a Legacie? 'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtile head; Wills have no force till the Testators dead; And that none can have ought by thy bequest Till thou art better dead than in a Jest: Nor would I that in tenderness to me Thou shouldst suspect thine own sufficiencie; Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed: 'Tis Incest to ascend the Fathers bed. What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child, Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild. And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see His Covent's better than thy Nunnerie. He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives, As thou, at his decease, but while he lives All these good wishes, such as he can spare, And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare. May every Knight about us, that's inclind, Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind. Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee, And be so paid for all in Verse as he. May the poor Scholar ne're want Sundays Pudding, When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden. May thy afflicted Toe ne're feel the Gout; Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout; That thou maist yet (at least) once more protest That Recipe wants no Probatum est. Maist thou next send me what is worth thy Pen; May I have brains to answer it agen. May all that are of such good wishes sullen, Live till their good Friends bury them in Woollen. Dr. Wild to Mr. Wanley. HOnestly done however, though the Stuff You sent be course, the measures large enough. The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass, The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass:

But now to pledge thee I am not enclin'd, You Sons o'th Church are for large draughts I find. Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free In sending such a brimmer unto me, That Sunday last, long of that frolick bout, Thy Parish had but half a glass I doubt. Besides the drink is small, you've chang'd your gill, I wish you'd kept it in your hogs-head still. Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit To cool the stomack, though not help the wit; And that might be thy case: for certainly Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry, Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain To cast them undigested up again. Twelve lines return'd the very same, that I Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply; Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread There is some Eccho in thine empty head: Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so The young one learneth of the old to crow. Nay, my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck, I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck. Now prithee Chick beware, for though I find That thou art right and of the fighting kind, Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel. Take this advice before you mean to fight, Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite. Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail, Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tayl; And threreby hangs another Tayl, I find Thy subtile nose hath got my breech i'th' wind. If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break, A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make. Hark, hark, saist thou, he let a fart! what though? It breaths forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow; Nor is there any Statute of our Nation That sayes, in five miles of a Corporation If any Outed-man a Fart should vent, That you should apprehend the Innocent. If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot, What had you said if I had bullets shot? Fye man! our mouths were stopped long ago, And would you have us silent too below? But I displaid my bum before thine eyes Unkindly thou saist, I say otherwise; For there thou mighst have thy resemblance took, Dead mens blind cheeks do very Wanley look. And for the crack it gave, that did but mind thee To strive to leave a good report behind thee. As for the gall which in your Ink appears, That in our Sufferings we are Volunteers; I'le not say much, I have more wit than so, scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know: But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip Your Brothers back which you did help to strip. Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before, Who kild those, whom his Cov'nant had made sore. And you know who they were that gave the blow, And then cry'd, Prophesie who smote thee so? We durst not keep our Livings for our lives, But they must needs go whom the Devil drives. Yea, but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep, And, would not work in one, nor th' other keep. I answer. No great Harvest yet appears, I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears. And though the Foxes breed, what need you care, When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are. For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cryes, Your knocking me did make this froth to rise. Once for my Age, Profession and Degree, To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee. Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may, When stak'd at Ticktack, soon be plaid away. Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet, And friendly part, as we did friendly meet. Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me, Accept this Litany I send to thee. May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joyn'd, As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrin'd; May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphear Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there; May that blest Life credit Conformitie, And make e'ven Puritans to honour thee. Maist thou to Christ such store of Converts bring, That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing. May God love you, and you love God again; And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.

London, Printed in the Year, 1668.