An Ingenious Contention, by way or Letter, between
Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a Nonconformist.
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Dr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, who
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was laid aside for Nonconformity.
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SO the bright Taper useless burns
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To private and recluded Urns.
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So Pearls themselves to shels confine,
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And Gems in the Seas bottom shine,
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[?] thou my WILD while thou dost lye
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Huddled up in thy privacy,
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[?]nd only now and then dost send
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Letter to thy private Friend;
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[T]ake once again thy Lyre, and so
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Let thy selected Numbers flow,
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As when thy solemn Muse did prove
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To sing the Funeral of Love;
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Or, as when with the Trump of fame
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Thou didst sound forth great Georges name,
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In such a strain, as might it be,
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Did speak thy self as great as he.
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For while great Cowley seeks the shade,
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And Denham's noble Wit's mislaid;
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When Davnants weary Quill lies by,
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And yeelds no more of Lombardy;
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While the sweet Virgin Muses be
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By Wild led int' a Nunnerie;
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While thus Apollos Priests retire,
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The Females do begin t' aspire,
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Pretending they have found a flaw
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In great Apollos Salique Law;
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These grasp at Lawrel, only due
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To such as I have nam'd, and you.
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Dr. Wild to the Ingenious
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Mr. Wanley.
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WHat jolly Shepherds voice is this
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Would tempt me from my private bliss
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After his Pipe to dance, while Thunder
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Threatens to rend that Oak in sunder,
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Under whose boughs in fairer dayes
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We sate secure, and sang the praise
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Of our great Pan, whose care did keep
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The pleasant Shepherds and their Sheep?
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Is this a time with wanton strains
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To whistle forth the Nymps and Swains
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To sport and dance, while Wolf and Fox
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Lye lurking to devour our Flocks,
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And Romes Sheep-stealers ready stand
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To give them their red letters brand?
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Dost thou not know, my sanguine Son,
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What th Plague and Fire have lately done?
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London hath sent up such a smoke,
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As may the Angels voices choak,
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And make tears big enough, to vent
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Tears in a deluge, to lament
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The raging fury of that Flame,
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But more of those that made the same.
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And when St. Paul has lost his Quire,
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Sacriledge to touch my Lyre.
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None but a monster Nero may
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Over a burning City play.
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Nor would I sing, were I a Jew,
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To please a Babylonish Crew.
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Now since the time for sorrow cryes,
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In this I freely temporize.
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So the bright Starrs draw in their light,
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When Clouds club for an ugly night.
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So all the Birds of Musick sleep
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On stormy dayes, and silence keep.
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So frost-nipt Roses droop and fall,
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Perfuming their own funerall.
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So you have seen a well-tun'd Lyre
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Swelling it self with grief and ire.
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In gloomy air, each heart-broke string
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Its own last passing-bell doth ring.
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So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds,
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Our softer Muses Musick drownds.
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Sir, by my many soes you know
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My Poetry is but so so.
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But why dost thou disdain or fear,
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That Female brows should Lawrel wear?
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Hast thou forgot that Noble Tree
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[Thy]self was made out of a shee?
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The Muses and the Graces all
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We of the Female Gender call,
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And so if you have not more care,
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You'l find they Furies likewise are.
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[?] would I have you wonder why
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[?]s all amort do lye,
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When Claret and Canary cease,
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The Wits will quickly hold their peace.
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Vintners and Poets fall together,
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If once the Ivy-Garland wither.
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Sweet Cowly thought (as well he might)
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He should have shin'd in Phoebus sight;
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But Clouds appear'd, and he that made
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Account of Juno, found a shade;
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And though on Davids Harp he plaid,
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The evil Spirit can't be laid:
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Therefore the Groves and Shades he loves,
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And his own Secretary proves.
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Your next mans temples Lawrel scorns;
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Since greater pride his brows adorns.
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He to Pernass. bears no good will,
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Because it proves a horned hill.
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The very thoughts whereof I dread
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Will ne're be got out of his head.
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Gondebert's silent, I suppose,
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Because his Muse sings through the nose,
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One syllable of which poor he
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Did lose by an Apocope.
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Wild sayes, Kind Wanley you'r to blame,
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Amongst these Swans his Goose to name,
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Yea though his lucky gagling
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Once helpt to save one Capital;
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His love to Love then made him fear
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His neck, not brow, a Wreath should wear.
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Next he did on a Loyal string
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His Georgicks and his Carols sing.
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But now because he cannot toot
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To Organ tunes, he's made a mute;
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And though alive, condemn'd to death:
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Therefore, dear Sir, in vain your breath,
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Although perfum'd and hot does come,
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To blow wind in a dead mans bumb;
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Yet, as a grateful Legacy,
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He leaves to thee his Nunnery,
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Not doubting but if need require
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Thou'lt prove an able loving Fryar.
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2. Mr. Wanley to Dr. Wild.
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WHat sullen wary Shepherds voice
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is this,
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That won't be tempted from his
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private bliss,
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But arbor'd up in Eglantine, while Thunder
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Threatens to rend & rive that Oak in sunder,
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Under whose boughs himself in fairer dayes
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Did sit secure with us, and sang the praise
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Of that great Pan, whose watchful care did keep
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At once the pleasant Shepherd & his Sheep?
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Is this a time for Shepherds to retreat,
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And seek out Coverts from the scorching heat?
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Is this a time for an inglorious sloth
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To hug it self, not daring to peep forth
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Into the open field, while th crafty Fox
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Lurks in the bushes to devour our Flocks,
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And Wolves of Romulus are grown so bold,
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To fright the silly Sheep ev'n in their Fold?
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Dost thou not know what crops the Plague has made
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And, Sampson-like, heaps upon heaps has laid?
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That if Heavens wrathful Anger thus proceed,
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There will no Flocks be left for thee to feed.
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London has sent up such a darkning smoak,
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And shall it too the Angels voices choak?
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Shall it make Clouds so thick and dark, that we
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Shall never more thy publick Censers see?
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'Tis Sacriledge to rob the Church; and thence
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Since you have stole your self, whats your offence?
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When the white Harvest for more Reapers cryes,
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How canst thou freely fit and temporize?
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So Stars reserve themselves for pitchy night,
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When Phoebus pouders all his locks with light.
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So feral Birds delight to sit alone,
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Till the dayes glories are packt up and gone.
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So Roses fall in June when frosts are past,
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And on dull earth lye blushing out their last.
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So the Musician smothers his Sol fa,
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When he's entreated or to sing or play.
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So when the fierce Bellona's Drums do beat,
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Who has no mind to fight, seeks his retreat.
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And so I've seen a long miswonted Lyre
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Sigh its own Dirge with its own broken wire,
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And seems to shiv'r at th downfal of Pauls quire.
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Say we not well, Agues will have their course?
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Yes, yes, they must remember with remorse
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The Ivy Garland's withering, dearth of Liquer,
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That would make Caput Mortuum the quicker.
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But why shouldst thou, kind soul, be in such fear,
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That plump Lyceus should grow lean this year?
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Hast thou forgot how fatal the Grape-stone
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Did whilom prove to poor Anacreon?
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Which of the Muses, or the Graces all,
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Did ere for Claret or Canary call?
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Is it not sung by the Venetian Swain
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How the brisk Wine gives horns to the poor man?
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And if you have not greater care, no doubt
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You'l find the Claret will revive your Gout,
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And then we shall hear thy Goose-gagling yaul
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Cry out for help to save thy Pedestall;
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Then we shall see thee, standing on one foot,
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Practise worse tunes than Organs ever toot.
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This is a vain presage, thou say'st; the Dead
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Have out-liv'd this, and have no Gout to dread.
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But art thou dead indeed? Though dead thou art,
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Heark how the dead mans bum does let a fart.
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When as my bashful Muse did to thee come,
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'Twas not so kindly done to turn thy bum;
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To vote her of the Babylonish Crew;
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And set the Furies on her with ha-loo.
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This 'tis to gad abroad, 'tis just upon her;
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Had Dina kept at home, shee'd sav'd her Honour.
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But I'm thy Son, and must corrected be;
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But why then dost thou turn thy bum to me?
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Dost think thy Son so sanguine & insano,
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To probe thee with a Fistula in Ano.
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This I should leave to any of the Crew,
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You may believe me though I were a Jew.
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And may my breath be still perfum'd, why not?
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Since dead Corps smell when they begin to rot.
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And he whose Muse such wondrous heights did fly,
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That it did seem to top the very Sky;
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And though he may have reason to be proud,
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Instead of Juno did imbrace a Cloud;
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May he resume King Davids Harp and play
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The Tarantul of discontent away.
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If Denham has so fouly been betray'd,
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And his Inclosures gainst his will survey'd:
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May he recover all his Wits and more,
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And with such keen Iambicks brand the Whore,
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That all may dread it worse than loss of life,
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To turn a Poet frantick for his Wife.
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Poor Davenant's Nose it seems is grown so sore,
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It scarcely will abide one smart Jest more.
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Well may the bridge be down, when Time doth meet
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To press it with his Satyr cloven-feet.
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And thou with thy Apocopes art wont
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To scatter balls of thy Wild-fire upon't.
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But shall I not, kind Wild, remember thee,
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Who hast bequeath'd me such a Legacie?
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'Tis thine for life, we know thy subtile head;
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Wills have no force till the Testators dead;
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And that none can have ought by thy bequest
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Till thou art better dead than in a Jest:
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Nor would I that in tenderness to me
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Thou shouldst suspect thine own sufficiencie;
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Enjoy it freely, since thou hast it wed:
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'Tis Incest to ascend the Fathers bed.
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What though thou ownst me for thy sanguine Child,
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Yet I have not so much my Sire of Wild.
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And thus far is thy Fry'r able to see
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His Covent's better than thy Nunnerie.
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He's loving too, 'tis true, he nothing gives,
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As thou, at his decease, but while he lives
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All these good wishes, such as he can spare,
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And if thou hast them, will help mend thy fare.
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May every Knight about us, that's inclind,
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Be unto thee, as Sir John Baber, kind.
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Ten Silver Crowns let each of them send thee,
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And be so paid for all in Verse as he.
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May the poor Scholar ne're want Sundays Pudding,
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When he's not like to preach for't on the sudden.
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May thy afflicted Toe ne're feel the Gout;
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Or if it must, let the Dutch have a Rout;
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That thou maist yet (at least) once more protest
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That Recipe wants no Probatum est.
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Maist thou next send me what is worth thy Pen;
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May I have brains to answer it agen.
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May all that are of such good wishes sullen,
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Live till their good Friends bury them in Woollen.
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HOnestly done however, though the Stuff
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You sent be course, the measures large enough.
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The first Cup thou beganst I could not pass,
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The Wine was brisk, and in a little glass:
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But now to pledge thee I am not enclin'd,
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You Sons o'th Church are for large draughts I find.
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Prithee leave off, for thou hast been so free
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In sending such a brimmer unto me,
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That Sunday last, long of that frolick bout,
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Thy Parish had but half a glass I doubt.
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Besides the drink is small, you've chang'd your gill,
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I wish you'd kept it in your hogs-head still.
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Yet, upon better thoughts, small drink is fit
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To cool the stomack, though not help the wit;
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And that might be thy case: for certainly
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Those salt bits I had sent thee made thee dry,
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Or sick, which made thee drink small drink, and strain
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To cast them undigested up again.
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Twelve lines return'd the very same, that I
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Must call the Hickup, rather than Reply;
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Or, by rebounding of my words, I dread
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There is some Eccho in thine empty head:
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Or rather thou my Cockril art, and so
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The young one learneth of the old to crow.
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Nay, my brave Bird, thou darest spur and peck,
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I wish that Shrovetide hazard not thy neck.
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Now prithee Chick beware, for though I find
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That thou art right and of the fighting kind,
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Yet thou art not my Match, and soon wilt feel
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My Gout lies in my Toe, not in my Heel.
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Take this advice before you mean to fight,
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Get your Comb cut, and leave your treading quite.
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Thy Barber, or his Wife, if he should fail,
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Has skill to clip thy wings, and trim thy tayl;
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And threreby hangs another Tayl, I find
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Thy subtile nose hath got my breech i'th' wind.
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If thou canst catch poor farts that Prison break,
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A notable Bumbayliff thou wilt make.
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Hark, hark, saist thou, he let a fart! what though?
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It breaths forth no Sedition, Sir, I trow;
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Nor is there any Statute of our Nation
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That sayes, in five miles of a Corporation
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If any Outed-man a Fart should vent,
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That you should apprehend the Innocent.
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If you so soon could smell the Pouder-Plot,
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What had you said if I had bullets shot?
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Fye man! our mouths were stopped long ago,
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And would you have us silent too below?
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But I displaid my bum before thine eyes
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Unkindly thou saist, I say otherwise;
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For there thou mighst have thy resemblance took,
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Dead mens blind cheeks do very Wanley look.
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And for the crack it gave, that did but mind thee
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To strive to leave a good report behind thee.
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As for the gall which in your Ink appears,
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That in our Sufferings we are Volunteers;
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I'le not say much, I have more wit than so,
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scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know:
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But Sir, 'tis cruelty in you, to whip
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Your Brothers back which you did help to strip.
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Yet thus your Grandsire Levi did before,
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Who kild those, whom his Cov'nant had made sore.
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And you know who they were that gave the blow,
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And then cry'd, Prophesie who smote thee so?
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We durst not keep our Livings for our lives,
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But they must needs go whom the Devil drives.
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Yea, but we left our Harvest, left our Sheep,
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And, would not work in one, nor th' other keep.
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I answer. No great Harvest yet appears,
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I'm sure your Churches hang but thin with ears.
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And though the Foxes breed, what need you care,
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When-as your Shepherds such Fox-catchers are.
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For pardon, Sir, my serious soul now cryes,
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Your knocking me did make this froth to rise.
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Once for my Age, Profession and Degree,
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To fool thus is enough, and Twice for thee.
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Thus great Estates b'imprudent owners may,
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When stak'd at Ticktack, soon be plaid away.
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Let's wind this folly up in this last sheet,
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And friendly part, as we did friendly meet.
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Yet, to requite thy Legacy to me,
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Accept this Litany I send to thee.
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May thy rich Parts with saving Grace be joyn'd,
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As Diamonds in Rings of Gold enshrin'd;
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May he that made thy Stars, create a Sphear
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Of heavenly frame of life, and fix them there;
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May that blest Life credit Conformitie,
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And make e'ven Puritans to honour thee.
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Maist thou to Christ such store of Converts bring,
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That he whose place thou fill'st, for joy may sing.
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May God love you, and you love God again;
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And may these Prayers of mine not be in vain.
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