Rome rhym'd to death being a collection of choice poems, in two parts / written by the E. of R., Dr. Wild, and others of the best modern wits.

Dr. WILD's Poem. In nova fert Animus, &c. OR, A New Song TO AN OLD FRIEND From An OLD POET, Upon the Hopeful New Parliament.

WE are All tainted with the Athenian Itch, News, and new Things do the whole World bewitch. Who would be Old, or in Old fashions Trade? Even an Old Whore would fain go for a Maid: The Modest of both Sexes, buy new Graces, Of Perriwigs for Pates, and Paint for Faces. Some wear new Teeth in an old Mouth; and some Carve a new Nose out of an aged Bum.

Old Hesiod's gods Immortal Youth enjoy: Cupid, though Blind, yet still goes for a Boy; Under one Hood Hypocrite Ianus too, Carries two fa••es, one Old, th' other New. Apollo wears no Bea••d, but still looks young; Diana, Pallas, 〈◊〉〈◊〉, all the throng Of Muses, Graces, Nymphs, look Bri••k▪ and Gay, Priding themselves in a perpetual May: Whiles doting Saturn, Pluto, Priserpin••, At their own ugly Wrinkles Rage and Grin; The very Furies in their looks do twine. Snakes, whose embro••dered skins 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their shine; And nothing makes Great Iuno chafe an•• ••cold, But Ioves new Misses slighting her as ••••ld. Poets, who others can Immo••tal 〈◊〉〈◊〉, When they grow Gray, their 〈…〉〈…〉; And seek young Temples, where they may, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Green; No Palsie ••and, may wash in Hypocrene; 'Twas not Terse Clarret, Eggs, and 〈◊〉〈◊〉, Nor Gobbets Crown'd with Gre••k or Span•••• Wine, Could make new Flames in Old Ben Iohnsons V••ins, But his Atto••ps prov'd l••nk and languid strain: His New Inn (so he nam'd his youngest Pla••, Prov'd a blind Ale-house, cry'd down the first Day: His own dull Epitaph—Here lies Ben Iohnson, (Half drunken too) He Hick••upt—who was once one▪ Ah! this sad once one! once we Trojans were; Oh, better never, if not still we are. Rhymes of Old Men, Iliack passions be, When that should downward go, comes up we see,

And are like Iews-Ears in an Elder-Tree; When Spectacles do once bestride the Nose, The Poet's Gallop turns to stumbling Prose. Sir, I am Old, Cold, Mould; and you might hope To see an Alderman dance on a Rope, A Iudge to act a Gallant in a Play, O•• an Old ••luralist Preach twice a day▪ Of 〈…〉〈…〉 Taylor make a Valiant Knight, 〈…〉〈…〉 of a Iesuite; As a•• Old ••ald-pate (such as mine you know) Sh••••ld make his Hair, or Wit and Fancy grow; 〈◊〉〈◊〉 is there need that such a Block as I S••ould now be hew'd into a Mercury. When Winter's gone, the O••d his foot may spare, And to the Nightingales resign the Air. Such is the beautiful new face of things: By Heavens kind Influences, and the Kings, Joy should inspire; and all in measures move, And every Citizen a Virgil prove. Each Protestant turn Poet; and who not Should be suspected guilty of the Plot If now the day doth dawn, our Cocks forbear To clap their Wings and Crow, you well may swear, It is their want of Loyalty, not Wit, That makes them sullen, and so silent sit. Galli of Gallick kind—I'le say no more, But that their Combs are Cut, and they are sore; Yet to provoke them, my Old Cock shall Crow, That so his Eccho round the Town may go.