The Grateful Non-Conformist;
OR,
A RETURN of THANKS
To Sir JOHN BABER Knight, and Doctor of Physick,
who sent the AUTHOR Ten Crowns.
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TEn Crowns at once! and to one man! and he
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As despicable as bad Poets be!
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Who scarce had wit, if you requir'd the same,
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To make an Anagram upon your name;
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Or to out-pun a Barber, or prepare
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An Epitaph to serve a Quinb'rough-May'r:
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A limping-Levite, who scarce in his prime
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Could woo an Abigail, or say Grace in Rime:
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Ten Crowns to such a thing! Friend, 'tis a Dose
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Able to raise dead Ben, or Dav'nant's Nose;
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Able to make a Courtier turn a Friend,
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And more then all of them in Victuals spend.
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This free Free-Parli'ment, whose Gifts do sound
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Full five and twenty hundred thousand pound,
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You have out-done them, Sir; yours was your own,
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And some of It shall last when Theirs is gone.
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Ten Crowns at once! and now at such a time,
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When love to such as I am, is a Crime
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Greater than his recorded in Jane Shore,
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Who gave but one poor Loaf to the starv'd Whore.
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What now to help a Non-Conformist! now,
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When Ministers are broke, that will not bow:
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When 'tis to be unblest, to be ungirt;
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To wear no Surplice, does deserve no Shirt:
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No Broth, no Meat; no Service, no Protection;
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No Cross, no Coyn; no Collect, no Collection:
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You are a daring Knight, thus to be kind:
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If TRUSTY ROGER get it in the Wind,
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He'll smell a Plot, a Presbyterian Plot,
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Especially for what you gave the [Scot:]
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And if the Spiritual Court take fire from Crack,
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They'l clap a Parritor upon your Back,
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Shall make you shrug, as if you wore the Collar
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Of a Cashiered Red-Coat, or poor Scholar.
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What will you plead, Sir, if they put you to 't?
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Was it the Doctor or the Knight did do't?
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Did you, as Doctor, flux some Usurer,
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And with your Quick make his Dull Silver stir?
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Or did your Zeal you a Knight-Templar make,
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To give the Church the Booties you should take?
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Or, was it your desire to beg Applause,
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Or shew affection to the GOOD OLD CAUSE?
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Was't to feed Faction, or uphold the stickle
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Between the Old Church and New Conventicle?
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No, none of these; but I have hit the thing,
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It was because You knew I lov'd the King.
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Ten Crowns at once! Sir, you'l suspected be
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For no good Protestant, you are so free:
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So much at once! Sure you ne'er gave before
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Or else, I doubt, mean to do so no more:
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This is enough to make a man protest
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Religio Medici to be the best.
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The Christians for whose sakes we are undone,
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Would have cry'd out, O' tis too much for one
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Either to give or take! What needs this waste?
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O how they love to have us keep a Fast!
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Five private Meetings (whereat each four Men
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In black Coats and white Caps (you'l call them then
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A Teem of Ministers) have tugg'd all day,
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[De]serving Provender, but scarce got Hay;
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[Wh]ere I myself have drawn my part some hours)
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Have not afforded such return as yours,
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I'd wish them watch, and keep me sober still;
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Not want of guilt in them, nor want of Will
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In me, but want of Wine does make me Tame,
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Or else I'd sacrifice them to the flame
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Of an high-blazing Satyr; here's a Man
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Who ne'er pretended at your Rates, yet can
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More freely feed us with Coyn and good Dishes
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Than they (yet that's their Alms) with sighs and wishes.
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O for a Rapture! how shall I describe
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The love of thousands to their Reading Tribe?
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Who so maintain'd them when they lost their Places,
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They did not lose one Pimple from their Faces;
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But after all, full fraught with Flesh and Flagon,
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Came forth like Monks, or Priests of Bell and Dragon:
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One would have judg'd, by their high looks and smells,
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They had layn-in in Cellars, not in Cells;
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Where they grew big and batten'd: for no doubt
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Some that went Firkins in, came Hogsheads out.
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But ours in two years time are Skin and Bones,
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And look like Grandams, or old Apple-Johns:
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One Lazarus amongst them was too much;
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But er't be long, we all shall look like such;
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And when that comes to pass, the World shall see
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Who are the Ghostly Fathers, They or We:
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And then our Bellies, without better fare,
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Will prove as empty as their Noddles are.
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Though We be silenc'd, our Guts won't be so;
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But make a Conventicle as they go:
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And by their Grumblings, shew great Discontent;
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And if you listen, STRANGE Reports do Vent:
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Peace, Colon, peace, and cease thy croaking din;
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Thou art condemn'd to be a Chitterlin:
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Except thy Latitudinarian TRIPES
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Conform, and turn Themselves to ORGAN PIPES.
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Nigardly Puritans! blush at the odds
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Betwixt their BONNERs, and our meagre DOD's;
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You give your Drink in Thimbles, they in Bowls;
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Your Church is poor [St.] Faiths, but theirs is [P]OWLS:
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[And] whilst you Priests and Altars do des[pise,]
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[Your]selves prove Priests, and we yo[ur Sacrifice]
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[But why do I per]mit my Muse to wh[ine?
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I wish my Brethren all su]ch Cheeks as mine;
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[And those th]at wish them well, such Hearts as thine.
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[M]y Noble BABER! I have chosen you
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For my Physician, and my Champion too:
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Give me sometimes but such a Dose, and I
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Will ne'er wish other Cordial till I die:
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And then proclaim you a most Valiant Knight;
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Shew but such Metal, though you never fight.
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