THE
MOCK-ELOGIE
ON THE
FUNERAL
OF
Mr. Caryl,
Gloriously solemnized, February 25th. 167 2/3. by an unparallell'd Concourse and At-
tendance of all Sorts and Sects of People.
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BLess me! what's here? a motley-throng;
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Presbyters, Sectarists among;
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Quakers, with Kiffin and J.O.
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Ranters, with Praise-god Bare-bones too.
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Here's a new Annus Mirabilis,
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A Miracle This Rabble is;
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Hanging on one string together,
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And All to Church now coming hither:
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A Reformation, sudden as strange:
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What is't has made this happy change?
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Flocking to Church now, One and All?
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Oh! 'tis old Caryls Funeral.
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Quakers once call'd him Antichrist,
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And Prebyterian-limb o'th' Beast.
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All sects, but one, us'd to defie him,
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And would not, whilst he liv'd, come nigh him.
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Caryl has made Church-converts more,
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Being dead, than ere he did before.
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All these sects are one Heteroclite,
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That worship God chiefly for spite:
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To Church they'l not refuse to go,
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So they may thence their malice show;
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And boast the numbers of their Party,
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And that the Old Cause still is hearty.
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These Pharisees, for th' esteem of men,
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Pray, Bury, Preach; All to be seen.
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All th' modern Orthodox together;
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Wild with his Gout too could hop thither
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To get new Cloak, for writing Verse,
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Pin'd, like a Coat of Arms, to th' Herse:
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Like to those snivelling Elogies
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He made upon the Rebels, Twisse,
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Palmer next, Burroughes, Hill, Gouge, White,
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With Whitaker, who (Wild says) did fight
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As far as York, with Cavaleers,
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And Routed them, with Prayers and tears.
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Well fought Don Quixot: else Wild lyes:
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(I had it truly 'mongst his storyes;)
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Where, in Blasphemous Elogies,
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He praises Rebels to the skies,
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And Miltons hackney-Pen out-vies,
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On their Urnes offering sacrifice.
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Wild, like the Pope, erects an Altar
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For Traitors that deserv'd an Halter.
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The Pope Saints Loyola: Wild Saints Knox,
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With the rebellious Orthodox,
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Perne, Marshal, Robinson and Strong,
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Peters, Caryl, the rest among.
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The Assembly now are every one
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Call'd to their last account and gone.
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Caryl bringing the Rear up, thus
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Lieutenant to Smectymnuus.
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Where art thou Iter Boreale?
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Whilst we thus weep, come, tell what ayle we:
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Thou! that, when Hugh Peters dy'd,
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With dirty Rhimes him deifi'd;
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Placing him, in the skies, next Star
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To th' General of our Holy-war
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Essex: Oh Essex! says this Poet,
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Begging o'th' Parliament a Vote,
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That All, as Malignants, should be try'd,
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Who smil'd that year that Essex dy'd.
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Wild shall Saint both Bawd and Whore;
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If Baber give him ten crowns more.
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For half-ten crowns, he shall in Rhime,
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God and his own Father Blaspheme;
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And King, Church, Parliament abuse,
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For twelve-pence with his Ballad-Muse:
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And make a whining Elogie
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On Father Gray-beard, Gregorie.
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He, a dead wench, a star did make
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For one crown, and her Father's sake;
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Saying, if th' wench had been a whore,
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It should have cost him as much more.
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Wild had good Glebe, but did fore-go it,
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To be a Bartlemew Babe (and Poet.)
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Therefore unfit for the Priests office,
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From which St. Paul rejects the Novice.
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Wilds Cassock's turn'd, (to tell you true,)
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To Frocks cut out o'th' Aprons blue:
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A Linsey-woolsey Clergy-man,
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A Holder-forth like Julian:
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A Holy-cheat in meeter, Thus
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Asinum scalpat Asinus.
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Have you not seen a Mountebanks fool sometimes
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Duck-quoy men in, with Trumpet and with Rhimes?
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Jack-pudden Wild for Customers thus stickles,
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He's Merry-Andrew to the Conventicles.
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London! by Plagues, learn to be wise:
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These Rebels have enflam'd thee twice:
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With Tumults these did thee enflame,
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To punish which the fire came;
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God took the Rod and laid it on
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For unrepented sedition.
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Lay not the blame on this, or that;
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On Papists, and I know not what:
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Blame thy still-repeated-sin,
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Faction that lyes yet within.
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Look this day on this factious Crew,
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They All are of a Different hue:
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Their Features have a several Grace,
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Yet now they seem to have one face.
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What brings to Church All these sects now?
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Right Hypocrites! All's for a show.
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How came all sects thus to combine?
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Oh! I can tell you, designe
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Which makes them All agree in one,
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In what d'ye think? in Sedition.
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Sure Hell's broke loose, for here we have
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Strange Ghosts now walking to the Grave:
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Heavens keep us from this Stygian Race!
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Are these the fruits of Acts of Grace?
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