Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

Mr. Cleveland's Answer.

SIR,

THE Philosopher that never laughed but once, when he saw an Ass mumbl∣ing of Thistles, would have broke his Spleen

at this Rejoynder of yours; for who would not take that to be an Emblem of this, ob∣serving how gingerly and with what cauti∣on you nibble at my Letter, lest it should prick your Chops? But something must needs be replied. Repetitions are usual with the Saints at Gra••••ham. I look upon your Letter as a Spittle-Sermon; Salinger's Round, the same again. I perceive your Ambition how you would prove your self to be a clean beast, because you know how to chew the Cud; for the first Sentence where you speak of troubled Spirits and sacred Oracles, you talk as if you were in Doll Com∣mons Extasie. Certainly your spirit is troubl∣ed, else your Expression had not run so muddy; for never was Oracle more ambi∣guous, if possible to be reconciled to Sence. The Wit which you say may be truss'd up in an Egg-shell, I fear your Oval Crown hath scarce Capacity enough to contain. you disclaim being a Coloss; Content; I have as diminitive thoughts of you as you please. I take you for a Jack-a Lent, and my Pen shall make use of you accordingly, three Throws for a penny. But you can∣not Cleave Land like Terram findere. What a chargeable Commodity is Wit at Gran∣tham, where the poor Writer plays the Pimp, and jumbles two Languages toge∣ther

in unlawful Sheets for the Production of a Quibble: but I applaud your Cunning, for the more unknown Tongue you jest in, your wit will be the better. And why can∣not you Cleave the Land? Tread but hard, and your cloven Foot will leave its Impres∣sion. You talk of Cyclops & Jugglers (indeed hard words are the Juggler's Dialect:) But take heed, the time may come, when unless you can play Presto be gone, your Run-away King may cause you Juggler-wise to dis∣gorge your Fate, and vomit a Rope in∣stead of Inkle. But to Eccho your Com∣parison, and to return you an Inventory of your good Parts. Is it not pity that the pure Extract of sanctified Emmanuel, par∣boil'd there in the Pipkin of Predestinati∣on, and since well read in the Sick man's Salve and the Crums of Comfort, and li∣berally fed with all the Minced Meat in Divinity? Is it not pity such a Goggle of the Eye, such a melodious ••wang of the Nose, a pliable Mouth drawn awry, as if it were edifying the Ear in private, besides Cheverel-Lungs that will stretch as far as Seventeenthly? Is it not pity that these gallant Ingredients of Modern Devotion, which might justly have qualified you for a Tub Lecturer, and in time made your Diocess as large as that of Heidelberg; that

these ineffable Parts which pass all under∣standing, should thus be sequestred from their Primitive Use, and of a godly Lans∣presado in the Church Militant be con∣verted to a Brother of the Blade. Such a walking Directory, such a zealous Roger as this might have saved more Souls than Sampson slew, and with the same Engine, the Jaw-bone of an Ass. Your Pen is coy, and you wave the Holy Ground and Holy Coyn with a squeamish Preterition. I am glad to hear you acknowledge there is Ho∣ly Ground; for then I hope Hatcham-Barn is not as good a Congregation as St. Paul's. For the Holy Coyn, you must pardon me if I suspect the Chastity of your Fingers. I am sure those of your Party have been troubled with Felons; witness the Church-Revenues, and the several Sacrileges which cannot be par'd off with your Nails: But there is another Reason why you abstain from the Idiom of the Saints. You were in hopes to retrieve your Money, and Ve∣rily▪ Verily Re•• never springs the Partridge. You would have your Man taken for a Tax-gatherer. Lord how the C••ime alters the Man! When he was with you he was one of the Scribes and Pharisees▪ and here he must pass for a Publican and Sinner. Sir, We cast up no Trench of 〈◊〉〈◊〉,

though we might have Dirt enough in your Language to do it; and yet we hope to be saved by our Works, for all the strength of your Faith, whereby you hold your selves able to remove Mountains. For your Advice not to throw Stars at your head, I embrace it; for what need I, so long as there is Goose-shot to be had for Money. My Wit shall be on what side Heaven you please, provided it ever be Antarctick to yours. For the appellati∣on of Giant, I accept it, only I am sorry I am not he with the hundred hands, that I might so often subscribe my self,

SIR, Your Servant I. C.