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.

Upon the new Parliament.

MY Landlord underprop't his House some years, Was often warn'd—'Twould fall about his Ears; For the main Timber, That above, and under, By every Bla••t was apt to rend asunder. This year He gently took all down, and then What of the Old prov'd sound, did serve agen. May all the New be Heart of English Oak, And the whole House stand firm from fatal stroke, And nothing in't, the Founder e're provoke. My Grandam, when her Bees were old and done, Burnt the old Stock, and a new Hive begun; And in one year she found a greater store Of Wax and Honey than in all before. Variety and Novelty delights; Old Shooes and Mouldy Bread are Gibeonites. When Cloaths grow thread bare, & breeds Vermin too, To Long-Lane with them, and put on some new: When Wine turns Vinegar—All Art is vain, The World can never make it Wine again. 'Tis time to wean that Child, who bites the Breast; And Chase those fowls, that do befowl the Nest. When Nolls Nose found the Rump began to smell; He dock't it, and the Nation lik'd it well. Cast the old-mark't and greazy Cards away, And give's a new Pack, else we will not Play; Nothing but Pork, and Pork, and Pork to eat! Good Landlord give's fresh COMMONS for our Meat.

Trent Council Thirty years lay sows'd in pickle, Until it prov'd a stinking Conventicle. And now Old Rome plays over her old Tricks, This Seventy-nine, shall pay for Sixty-six: Out of the Fire, like new refined Gold, How bright new London looks above the Old! All Creatures under Old Corruptions groan, And for a New Creation make their moan: The Phoenix (of her self grown weary) dyes Unto succession a burnt-Sacrifice: Old Eagles breed bad Hawks, and they worse Kites, And they blind Buzzards (as Old Pliny Writes), Deans, Prebends, Chaplins think themselves have wrong, When Bishops live unmercifully long; And poor Dissenters beg they may ascend Into a Pulpit from the Tables end. And who hath not by good experience found Best Crops are gained by new-broken ground. And the first feed—OATS sifted clean and sound? But yet Old Friends, Old Gold, Old King, I prise: Old Tyburn take them who do otherwise: Heaven Chase the Vulture from our Eagles Nest, And let no Ravens this March-Brood molest;