A
DIALOGUE
Between
DEATH
AND
Doctor ROBERT WYLD,
Who Dyed lately of an APOPLEXY.
|
D. NO Roring Christmas shalt Thou keep, now Rore
|
Bold Wit! W. Oh! oh! Hhohh! Well! Ile cry no more,
|
Alas, it is for Thee, not Me, to Rore.
|
A Deadly Blow! But wheres thy Sting? There lies
|
The King of Terrors cowd out! In Sacrifice
|
(An Eucharist) Lord, take this Soul to Thee,
|
By Death Thou hast slain Death, Redeemed Me.
|
Grave, take the Carcass, at the reckning Day
|
With Interest the Principal repay.
|
Take Worms meat (theyl scarce lick the punched Face,)
|
Bringt up in Glory, though sown in Disgrace,
|
In never-fading Beauty it shall rise,
|
And be transplanted int yon Paradise.)
|
Theyl Digg the Kernels out (the Eyes) Digg on!
|
One Breakfast makes the Head a Skeleton.
|
Theyl tease the Hands, and Toes, and Paunch (their Fence)
|
Intolerable Pains, have numbd all Sense.
|
Twas not Seer Sheldon, when he turnd Me out,
|
Did Me perplex; no, it was Bishop Gout.
|
Death did me vex and terrifie much less,
|
Ile now be gone out of his Diocess.
|
I con you Thanks. Bish. Gout proceeded on,
|
You granted me a Prohibition.
|
Adieu, my Lord. D. Im but a Pursivant,
|
To th Court you to conduct, by Heaven sent.
|
W. I livd a Martyr all my Dayes, now I,
|
In flaming Spices, like a Phoenix, Dy.
|
My Heart bleeds for the Church and State, I faint,
|
Take of my Cordial, Surviving Saint.
|
Proud Babel Reels, it Totters, it will Fall,
|
As sure as Lambeth stands against White-Hall.
|
Come Seraphims, and bear this Soul above,
|
Impatient to see her Vines, her Love.
|
One Stroke, with all the Clusters, Lopd the Vine,
|
One chopd off Love. Ha, ha! their Lot is Mine.
|
They were so quick at Work, their Masters Voice
|
Soon calld them off; Into your Masters Joyes.
|
More Blessed Sight Ile see, (Twill satisfie)
|
The Glorious, Ever-blessed Trinity.
|
Whom I Adord and Lovd sometimes, Him I
|
For evr will Love, Admire, and Glorifie;
|
So, so, Ill spend a Blest Eternity,
|
In everlasting Love, Delights and Joy.
|
Hal--Le--Lu--Jah.
|
Alas! Poor Scholar, hast thou felt the Stroke
|
Of matchless Death? Are all thine Heart-strings broke?
|
Whol sing thine Iter Empyraeum? I
|
After thy Blood-suck send this Hue and Cry.
|
Great Wyld is slain! Slain! Let this Shreek fly round
|
Till Hills, and Dales, and Rocks, and Shores rebound,
|
Unto Pale Pyrene, and from thence go on
|
Over Parnassus unto Helicon.
|
Raise up the sluggish Sisters, Three times Three,
|
In Lamentations Drop one Elegie.
|
Streams Ever-flowing from each Muses Eye
|
May Spring a Fountain, now their Well is Dry.
|
Tagus and Ganges will astonishd be,
|
And all th Antipodes as well as We.
|
Who slew the Muses Darling, of Mankind
|
The Choice Delights? Search out until you find.
|
Who wast killd the Divine? Who slew the Poet?
|
Eccho. Eat! What Nimble Chaps, what Cormorant was he
|
Could eat up Wyld? Might not he poysond be?
|
Who poysond Wild? Wakeman with all his Main
|
Could not get Sacred Charles out of his Wain.
|
He pawnd his Skill, though Justice might not spy,
|
A Plaister to the Fist affects the Eye.
|
Twas Death (that Jesuit) so greedy grown
|
It chapt up Robert, and let George alone.
|
Romes Emissary Leeches, so fine bred,
|
Wont touch Posteriors, they chap at th Head.
|
HEre lies Poor Robin, most enriched one
|
With Natures Dowre, Graces large Portion.
|
Nature brought Reason, Prudence, Eloquence,
|
And Magnanimity, Munificence,
|
Courage and Constancy, and Matchless Wit.
|
Grace Him adornd with Faith, and Hope, and Love,
|
That Saints below he might excell, above
|
With Patience, in none admired more;
|
Nature and Grace on him laid out their Store.
|
Romes Plot to strangle Justice in Godfrey,
|
Hells was; in Wild, to choak Divinity.
|
Here lies the Poet, here lies Poetry,
|
Heres the Divine, here lies Divinity.
|
Ah Fools! an inexhausted Spring doth Lye,
|
Justice in Charles, in God, Theology.
|
|
|
|
|
|