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