Loyal poems and satyrs upon the times since the beginning of the Salamanca plot written by several hands ; collected by M.T.

ON Old Doctor Wild's New POEM TO HIS Old Friend, upon the New PARLIAMENT.

THus 'tis to stand Condemn'd by rigorous Fate To the vile Plague of a Poetick Pate: The Itch of Rhyming where it once does seize, Becomes a more Incurable Disease Than Pox or Scurvey: Harder 'tis to rout WILD's Scribling humour, than to Charm his Gout An Old Man's twice a Child, I heard folks say, But never more, than when he would seem Gay, And does with Jingling Hobby-horses play: When sprightly Fancy's gone, the doting Bungler Mounts the brisk Muse, but proves an errant Fumble Gets only Puling Verse, languid and thin, Not to be call'd a Birth, but Souterkin.

Sorry dull Puns, and Nauseating Quibbles, Worse than old Crab-i'th-wood, or Belman Scribbles. Just so Sir Limber-ham that scarce can crawl, Will on his Venus, and his Cupids call; And drains Five hundred Pieces from his Purse To keep a Miss, when more he wants a Nurse. But tell me Reverend Songster! was it fit Thy Doctorship should thus the Pulpit quit, To Revel in such Babylonish Wit? Thy very Friends when they thy Poem scan, Say only—He's a Towardly old Man. Though thou forgot'st thy Calling, Age, Degree, This Subject sure should curb thy Levity To treat of PARLIAMENTS at such a rate, In fulsom Metaphors of Billings-gate, Before th' August Illustrious Senate come, And straight turn up, (sans shame,) thy Aged Bum Deserves a Lash from the Black Rod at least To make th' Old Baby smart for the lewd Jest, Amongst so many Olds as thou dost trace, 'Tis strange the Good Old Cause obtain'd no place. Then Poor Dissenter bravely might Ascend Into a Pulpit from the Tables end, And Hold forth Godly Sonnets to his Friend. We all are Joy'd at present Face of Things, And thank both Heav'ns kind Influence, and the Kings, ROMES Vultures, nor the Gallick Cocks we fear, Safe in our watchful Eagles Royal Care: Yet love not to run mad, and Dance the Hay, As stung (like thee) With a Tarantula:

VVho e're thy greazie Tale of Pork does view, Suspects thee for the By-blow of a Jew. Thy Grandam when she burnt th'old Stock, was cruel, Not Bees but Wasps deserve to be made Fewel: Good Housewives do not think her Method safe, To Drive is better than to Burn by half; But these Wild Sallies do too plainly show, Thou dost but Cackle when thou thoughtst to Crow. Treating of Richest Robes of State, and Ermin, Thou just like some Pot-Poets Cozen German Bethinks thee of th'own thred-bare Cloaths & Ver∣min. Then cry'st to Longlane with them-New put on; Sweet Sir! 'tis timely thought of, may't be done. But best make haste e're Ketches Wardrobe's gone Thinkst thou (VVILD as thou art!) such Lang∣uage meet T'approach the Soveraign Legislative Seat? Pardon Great Senate! that his Phrensy drew Me to the Rudeness here of naming You. The haughtiest Subjects tremble when they come To your Just Barr, and dread th'Impartial Doom. Fair Copy of Heavens Policy! the same Idaea that rules the Ʋniversal Frame, VVhere Nobles, as the Fixed Stars do shine In Honours Firmament; And Rays Divine From Reverend Fathers of the Church are spread, To strike both Schism and Superstition dead. Next, Sages of the Law, as Planets trace Their Circuits, to enliven in each place

Those needful ACTS which here are fram'd, and deal Distributive Justice for the Publick weal. Then COMMONS as full Constellations, joyn, And their Wise Councels solemnly Combine, VVhilst Sacred Majesty incircled round VVith Native Glory, as the Sun, is found Beaming his Acts of Grace so free and bright, That all from Him borrow both Heat and Light. Healing Assembly! whensoe're you meet, The Peoples Choice, and the KINGS Wishes greet: Their Liberties, His Honour, You mantain, O let them ne'r be Differenc'd again! In his own proper Orb let each Star move, Not Jostling those Below, nor them Above. Let no False Fires their dazling Beams display, Nor upstart Meteors interrupt your way: All Your Debates lot Moderation Calm, And Your Results become the Nations Balm. Those little Foxes that the Land Defile, And seek our Vine and Tender Grapes to spoil, Unkennel them; and let ROMES Conclave see, In vain they PLOT, whilst You our Guardians be. May Heaven all Your Consultations Bless, And all Good Men pray for your wisht Success. But our Old Buisie Rhymer we shall lose, Who Hawks and Kites, and blind Buzzards pursues, Ʋntil at last like a Bewildred Jolt-head, His Muse has all her Borrowed Feathers moulted. Age makes all stoop—How fast the Man descends? Commences Doctor, and Poor Robin, Ends.