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 SIxteenthly ; then beloved , it is so , Out of John Calvin's Reliques Poets grow ; Who , when their Pulpit plots are out of date , With Puny Ballads will infest the State .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 'T would 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 i th' 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 o th' 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 , 't is 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 .