An ingenious contention, by way of letter, between Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a nonconformist.

●n Ingenious Contention , by way of Letter , Between Mr. Wanly , a son of the Church ; & Dr. Wild , a Nonconformist . ●●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 VVILD while thou dost lye ●uddled up in thy privacy , ●nd only now and then dost send 〈◊〉 Letter to thy private Friend ; ●ake once again thy Lyre , and so ●et 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 George's 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 Davnant's weary Quill lies by , And yeelds no more of Lombardy ; While the sweet Virgin Muses be By Wild led in t' a Nunnerie ; While thus Apollo's Priests retire , The Females do begin t' aspire , Pretending they have found a flaw In great Apollo's 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 ●ur 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 , 'T were 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 It s own last passing-bell doth ring . So when Bellona's Trumpet sounds , Our softer Muses Musick drownds . Sir , by my many foes 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 ●●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 brow● ado●ns . He to Pernass . bears no g●●d 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 yaul 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 ? 'T is Sacriledge to rob the Church ; and thence Since you have stole your self , what 's your offence ? When the white Harvest for more Reapers cryes , How canst thou freely sit 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 , A gues 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 Lycëus 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 root . 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 , 'T was 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 't is to gad abroad , 't is 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 Inclosure '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 ? 'T is thine for life , we know thy subtile head ; Wills have no force till the Testator's 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 : 'T is 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 , 't is 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 bad 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 thereby 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 mightst 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 , ‛ T is scurvy jesting with edg-tools I know : But Sir , 't is 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 brings , 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 .