







 
   
     
       
         An ingenious contention, by way of letter, between Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a nonconformist.
         Wanley, Nathaniel, 1634-1680.
      
       
         
           1668
        
      
       Approx. 20 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 1 1-bit group-IV TIFF page image.
       
         Text Creation Partnership,
         Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :
         2009-03 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).
         B06739
         Wing W706
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide C.20.f.4[49]
         Interim Tract Supplement Guide 1852.a.1.[17]
         99884947
         ocm99884947
         182719
         
           
            This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. This Phase I text is available for reuse, according to the terms of
             Creative Commons 0 1.0 Universal
            . The text can be copied, modified, distributed and performed, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
          
        
      
       
         Early English books online.
      
       
         (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. B06739)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 182719)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books; Tract supplement ; A4:2[49]; A7:2[20])
      
       
         
           
             An ingenious contention, by way of letter, between Mr. Wanly, a son of the Church; & Dr. Wild, a nonconformist.
             Wanley, Nathaniel, 1634-1680.
             Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.).
           
             [s.n.],
             London, :
             Printed in the year, 1668.
          
           
             Verse: "SO the bright Taper useless burns"; preceded by "Mr. Nathan Wanley to Dr. Wild, was laid aside for Nonconformity ..."
             Reproduction of original in the British Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
         Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2tei.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.
         Re-processed by University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Northwestern, with changes to facilitate morpho-syntactic tagging. Gap elements of known extent have been transformed into placeholder characters or elements to simplify the filling in of gaps by user contributors.
      
       
         EEBO-TCP is a partnership between the Universities of Michigan and Oxford and the publisher ProQuest to create accurately transcribed and encoded texts based on the image sets published by ProQuest via their Early English Books Online (EEBO) database (http://eebo.chadwyck.com). The general aim of EEBO-TCP is to encode one copy (usually the first edition) of every monographic English-language title published between 1473 and 1700 available in EEBO.
         EEBO-TCP aimed to produce large quantities of textual data within the usual project restraints of time and funding, and therefore chose to create diplomatic transcriptions (as opposed to critical editions) with light-touch, mainly structural encoding based on the Text Encoding Initiative (http://www.tei-c.org).
         The EEBO-TCP project was divided into two phases. The 25,363 texts created during Phase 1 of the project have been released into the public domain as of 1 January 2015. Anyone can now take and use these texts for their own purposes, but we respectfully request that due credit and attribution is given to their original source.
         Users should be aware of the process of creating the TCP texts, and therefore of any assumptions that can be made about the data.
         Text selection was based on the New Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (NCBEL). If an author (or for an anonymous work, the title) appears in NCBEL, then their works are eligible for inclusion. Selection was intended to range over a wide variety of subject areas, to reflect the true nature of the print record of the period. In general, first editions of a works in English were prioritized, although there are a number of works in other languages, notably Latin and Welsh, included and sometimes a second or later edition of a work was chosen if there was a compelling reason to do so.
         Image sets were sent to external keying companies for transcription and basic encoding. Quality assurance was then carried out by editorial teams in Oxford and Michigan. 5% (or 5 pages, whichever is the greater) of each text was proofread for accuracy and those which did not meet QA standards were returned to the keyers to be redone. After proofreading, the encoding was enhanced and/or corrected and characters marked as illegible were corrected where possible up to a limit of 100 instances per text. Any remaining illegibles were encoded as <gap>s. Understanding these processes should make clear that, while the overall quality of TCP data is very good, some errors will remain and some readable characters will be marked as illegible. Users should bear in mind that in all likelihood such instances will never have been looked at by a TCP editor.
         The texts were encoded and linked to page images in accordance with level 4 of the TEI in Libraries guidelines.
         Copies of the texts have been issued variously as SGML (TCP schema; ASCII text with mnemonic sdata character entities); displayable XML (TCP schema; characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or text strings within braces); or lossless XML (TEI P5, characters represented either as UTF-8 Unicode or TEI g elements).
         
          Keying and markup guidelines are available at the
           Text Creation Partnership web site
          .
        
      
       
         
         
      
    
     
       
         eng
      
       
         
           Letters -- Early works to 1800.
           Dissenters, Religious -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800.
        
      
    
     
        2008-02 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2008-05 SPi Global
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2008-07 Mona Logarbo
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2008-07 Mona Logarbo
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2008-09 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
         
         
           ●n
           Ingenious
           Contention
           ,
           by
           way
           of
           Letter
           ,
           Between
           Mr.
           Wanly
           ,
           a
           son
           of
           the
           Church
           ;
           &
           Dr.
           Wild
           ,
           a
           Nonconformist
           .
        
         
           
             ●●Dr
             .
             Nathan
             Wanley
             
               to
               Dr.
            
             Wild
             ,
             
               who
               was
               laid
               aside
               for
               Nonconformity
               .
            
          
           
             
               SO
               the
               bright
               Taper
               useless
               burns
            
             
               To
               private
               and
               recluded
               Urns.
            
             
               So
               Pearls
               themselves
               to
               shels
               confine
               ,
            
             
               And
               Gems
               in
               the
               Seas
               bottom
               shine
               ,
            
             
               thou
               my
               VVILD
               while
               thou
               dost
               lye
            
             
               ●uddled
               up
               in
               thy
               privacy
               ,
            
             
               ●nd
               only
               now
               and
               then
               dost
               send
            
             
               〈◊〉
               Letter
               to
               thy
               private
               Friend
               ;
            
             
               ●ake
               once
               again
               thy
               Lyre
               ,
               and
               so
            
             
               ●et
               thy
               selected
               Numbers
               flow
               ,
            
             
               As
               when
               thy
               solemn
               Muse
               did
               prove
            
             
               To
               sing
               the
               Funeral
               of
               Love
               ;
            
             
               Or
               ,
               as
               when
               with
               the
               Trump
               of
               fame
            
             
               Thou
               didst
               sound
               forth
               great
               
               George's
               name
               ,
            
             
               In
               such
               a
               strain
               ,
               as
               might
               it
               be
               ,
            
             
               Did
               speak
               thy self
               as
               great
               as
               he
               .
            
             
               For
               while
               great
               Cowley
               seeks
               the
               shade
               ,
            
             
               And
               Denham's
               noble
               Wit
               's
               mislaid
               ;
            
             
               When
               
               Davnant's
               weary
               Quill
               lies
               by
               ,
            
             
               And
               yeelds
               no
               more
               of
               Lombardy
               ;
            
             
               While
               the
               sweet
               Virgin
               Muses
               be
            
             
               By
               Wild
               led
               in
               t
               '
               a
               Nunnerie
               ;
            
             
               While
               thus
               
               Apollo's
               Priests
               retire
               ,
            
             
               The
               Females
               do
               begin
               t'
               aspire
               ,
            
             
               Pretending
               they
               have
               found
               a
               flaw
            
             
               In
               great
               
               Apollo's
               Salique
               Law
               ;
            
             
               These
               grasp
               at
               Lawrel
               ,
               only
               due
            
             
               To
               such
               as
               I
               have
               nam'd
               ,
               and
               you
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dr.
             Wild
             
               to
               the
               Ingenious
               Mr.
            
             Wanley
             .
          
           
             
               WHat
               jolly
               Shepherds
               voice
               is
               this
            
             
               Would
               tempt
               me
               from
               my
               private
               bliss
            
             
               After
               his
               Pipe
               to
               dance
               ,
               while
               Thunder
            
             
               Threatens
               to
               rend
               that
               Oak
               in
               sunder
               ,
            
             
               Under
               whose
               boughs
               in
               fairer
               dayes
            
             
               We
               sate
               secure
               ,
               and
               sang
               the
               praise
            
             
               Of
               ●ur
               great
               Pan
               ,
               whose
               care
               did
               keep
            
             
               The
               pleasant
               Shepherds
               and
               their
               Sheep
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               a
               time
               with
               wanton
               strains
            
             
               To
               whistle
               forth
               the
               Nymps
               and
               Swains
            
             
               To
               sport
               and
               dance
               ,
               while
               Wolf
               and
               Fox
            
             
               Lye
               lurking
               to
               devour
               our
               Flocks
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 Romes
                 Sheep-stealers
              
               ready
               stand
            
             
               To
               give
               them
               their
               
                 red
                 letters
              
               brand
               ?
            
             
               Dost
               thou
               not
               know
               ,
               my
               sanguine
               Son
               ,
            
             
               What
               th'
               Plague
               and
               Fire
               have
               lately
               done
               ▪
            
             
               London
               hath
               sent
               up
               such
               a
               smoke
               ,
            
             
               As
               may
               the
               Angels
               voices
               choak
               ,
            
             
               And
               make
               tears
               big
               enough
               ,
               to
               vent
            
             
               Tears
               in
               a
               deluge
               ,
               to
               lament
            
             
               The
               
                 raging
                 fury
              
               of
               that
               Flame
               ,
            
             
               But
               more
               of
               those
               that
               made
               the
               same
               .
            
             
               And
               when
               St.
               Paul
               has
               lost
               his
               Quire
               ,
            
             
               'T
               were
               Sacriledge
               to
               touch
               my
               Lyre
               .
            
             
               None
               but
               a
               monster
               Nero
               may
            
             
               Over
               a
               
                 burning
                 City
              
               play
               .
            
             
               Nor
               would
               I
               sing
               ,
               were
               I
               a
               Jew
               ,
            
             
               To
               please
               a
               
                 Babylonish
                 Crew
              
               .
            
             
               Now
               since
               the
               time
               for
               sorrow
               cryes
               ,
            
             
               In
               this
               I
               freely
               temporize
               .
            
             
               So
               the
               bright
               Starrs
               draw
               in
               their
               light
               ,
            
             
               When
               Clouds
               club
               for
               an
               ugly
               night
               .
            
             
               So
               all
               the
               Birds
               of
               Musick
               sleep
            
             
               On
               stormy
               dayes
               ,
               and
               silence
               keep
               ,
            
             
               So
               frost-nipt
               Roses
               droop
               and
               fall
               ,
            
             
               Perfuming
               their
               own
               funerall
               .
            
             
               So
               you
               have
               seen
               a
               well-tun'd
               Lyre
            
             
               Swelling
               it self
               with
               grief
               and
               ire
               .
            
             
               In
               gloomy
               air
               ,
               each
               heart-broke
               string
            
             
               It
               s
               own
               last
               passing-bell
               doth
               ring
               .
            
             
               So
               when
               Bellona's
               Trumpet
               sounds
               ,
            
             
               Our
               
                 softer
                 Muses
              
               Musick
               drownds
               .
            
             
               Sir
               ,
               by
               my
               many
               soes
               you
               know
            
             
               My
               Poetry
               is
               but
               
                 so
                 so
              
               .
            
             
               But
               why
               dost
               thou
               disdain
               or
               fear
               ,
            
             
               That
               Female
               brows
               should
               Lawrel
               wear
               ?
            
             
               Hast
               thou
               forgot
               that
               Noble
               Tree
            
             
               ●●self
               was
               made
               out
               of
               a
               shee
               ?
            
             
               The
               Muses
               and
               the
               Graces
               all
            
             
               We
               of
               the
               
                 Female
                 Gender
              
               call
               ,
            
             
               And
               so
               if
               you
               have
               not
               more
               care
               ,
            
             
               You
               'l
               find
               they
               Furies
               likewise
               are
               .
            
             
               〈◊〉
               would
               I
               have
               you
               wonder
               why
            
             
               〈…〉
               s
               
                 all
                 amort
              
               do
               lye
               ,
            
             
               When
               Claret
               and
               Canary
               cease
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wits
               will
               quickly
               hold
               their
               peace
               .
            
             
               Vintners
               and
               Poets
               fall
               together
               ,
            
             
               If
               once
               the
               Ivy-Garland
               wither
               .
            
             
               Sweet
               Cowly
               thought
               (
               as
               well
               he
               might
               )
            
             
               He
               should
               have
               shin'd
               in
               Phoebus
               sight
               ;
            
             
               But
               Clouds
               appear'd
               ,
               and
               he
               that
               made
            
             
               Account
               of
               Juno
               ,
               found
               a
               shade
               ;
            
             
               And
               though
               on
               
                 Davids
                 Harp
              
               he
               plaid
               ,
            
             
               The
               
                 evil
                 Spirit
              
               can't
               be
               laid
               :
            
             
               Therefore
               the
               Groves
               and
               Shades
               he
               loves
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               own
               Secretary
               proves
               .
            
             
               Your
               next
               mans
               temples
               Lawrel
               scorns
               ,
            
             
               Since
               greater
               pride
               his
               brow●
               ado●ns
               .
            
             
               He
               to
               Pernass
               .
               bears
               no
               g●●d
               will
               ,
            
             
               Because
               it
               proves
               a
               
                 horned
                 hill
              
               .
            
             
               The
               very
               thoughts
               whereof
               I
               dread
            
             
               Will
               ne're
               be
               got
               out
               of
               his
               head
               .
            
             
               
               Gondebert's
               silent
               ,
               I
               suppose
               ,
            
             
               Because
               his
               Muse
               sings
               
                 through
                 the
                 nose
              
               ,
            
             
               One
               syllable
               of
               which
               poor
               he
            
             
               Did
               lose
               by
               an
               Apocope
               .
            
             
               Wild
               sayes
               ,
               Kind
               Wanley
               you'r
               to
               blame
               ,
            
             
               Amongst
               these
               Swans
               his
               Goose
               to
               name
               ,
            
             
               Yea
               though
               his
               lucky
               
                 gagling
                 yaul
              
            
             
               Once
               helpt
               to
               save
               one
               Capital
               ;
            
             
               His
               love
               to
               Love
               then
               made
               him
               fear
            
             
               His
               neck
               ,
               not
               brow
               ,
               a
               Wreath
               should
               wear
               .
            
             
               Next
               he
               did
               on
               a
               Loyal
               string
            
             
               His
               Georgicks
               and
               his
               Carols
               sing
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               because
               he
               cannot
               toot
            
             
               To
               
                 Organ
                 tunes
              
               ,
               he
               's
               made
               a
               mute
               ;
            
             
               And
               though
               alive
               ,
               condemn'd
               to
               death
               :
            
             
               Therefore
               ,
               
                 dear
                 Sir
              
               ,
               in
               vain
               your
               breath
               ,
            
             
               Although
               perfum'd
               and
               hot
               does
               come
               ,
            
             
               To
               blow
               wind
               in
               a
               
                 dead
                 mans
                 bumb
              
               ;
            
             
               Yet
               ,
               as
               a
               grateful
               Legacy
               ,
            
             
               He
               leaves
               to
               thee
               his
               Nunnery
               ,
            
             
               Not
               doubting
               but
               if
               need
               require
            
             
               Thou
               'lt
               prove
               an
               
                 able
                 loving
                 Fryar
              
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             2.
             
             Mr.
             Wanley
             to
             Dr.
             Wild.
             
          
           
             
               WHat
               sullen
               wary
               Shepherds
               voice
               is
               this
               ,
            
             
               That
               won't
               be
               tempted
               from
               his
               private
               bliss
               ,
            
             
               But
               arbor'd
               up
               in
               Eglantine
               ,
               while
               Thunder
            
             
               Threatens
               to
               rend
               &
               rive
               that
               Oak
               in
               sunder
               ,
            
             
               Under
               whose
               boughs
               himself
               in
               fairer
               dayes
            
             
               Did
               sit
               secure
               with
               us
               ,
               and
               sang
               the
               praise
            
             
               Of
               that
               
                 great
                 Pan
              
               ,
               whose
               watchful
               care
               did
               keep
            
             
               At
               once
               the
               pleasant
               Shepherd
               &
               his
               Sheep
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               a
               time
               for
               Shepherds
               to
               retreat
               ,
            
             
               And
               seek
               out
               Coverts
               from
               the
               
                 scorching
                 heat
              
               ?
            
             
               Is
               this
               a
               time
               for
               an
               
                 inglorious
                 sloth
              
            
             
               To
               hug
               it self
               ,
               not
               daring
               to
               peep
               forth
            
             
               Into
               the
               open
               field
               ,
               while
               th'
               
                 crafty
                 Fox
              
            
             
               Lurks
               in
               the
               bushes
               to
               devour
               our
               Flocks
               ,
            
             
               And
               Wolves
               of
               Romulus
               are
               grown
               so
               bold
               ,
            
             
               To
               fright
               the
               silly
               Sheep
               ev'n
               in
               their
               Fold
               ?
            
             
               Dost
               thou
               not
               know
               what
               crops
               the
               Plague
               has
               made
            
             
               And
               ,
               
               Sampson-like
               ,
               
                 heaps
                 upon
                 heaps
              
               has
               laid
               ?
            
             
               That
               if
               Heavens
               wrathful
               Anger
               thus
               proceed
               ,
            
             
               There
               will
               no
               Flocks
               be
               left
               for
               thee
               to
               feed
               .
            
             
               London
               has
               sent
               up
               such
               a
               darkning
               smoak
               ,
            
             
               And
               shall
               it
               too
               the
               Angels
               voices
               choak
               ?
            
             
               Shall
               it
               make
               Clouds
               so
               thick
               and
               dark
               ,
               that
               we
            
             
               Shall
               never
               more
               thy
               publick
               Censers
               see
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               Sacriledge
               to
               rob
               the
               Church
               ;
               and
               thence
            
             
               Since
               you
               have
               stole
               your self
               ,
               what
               's
               your
               offence
               ?
            
             
               When
               the
               
                 white
                 Harvest
              
               for
               
                 more
                 Reapers
              
               cryes
               ,
            
             
               How
               canst
               thou
               freely
               sit
               and
               temporize
               ?
            
             
               So
               Stars
               reserve
               themselves
               for
               pitchy
               night
               ,
            
             
               When
               Phoebus
               pouders
               all
               his
               locks
               with
               light
               .
            
             
               So
               feral
               Birds
               delight
               to
               sit
               alone
               ,
            
             
               Till
               the
               dayes
               glories
               are
               packt
               up
               and
               gone
               .
            
             
               So
               Roses
               fall
               in
               June
               when
               frosts
               are
               past
               ,
            
             
               And
               on
               dull
               earth
               lye
               blushing
               out
               their
               last
            
             
               So
               the
               Musician
               smothers
               his
               
                 Sol
                 fa
              
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               's
               entreated
               or
               to
               sing
               or
               play
               .
            
             
               So
               when
               the
               fierce
               Bellona's
               Drums
               do
               beat
               ,
            
             
               Who
               has
               no
               mind
               to
               fight
               ,
               seeks
               his
               retreat
               .
            
             
               And
               so
               I
               've
               seen
               a
               long
               miswonted
               Lyre
            
             
               Sigh
               its
               own
               Dirge
               with
               its
               own
               broken
               wire
               ,
            
             
               And
               seems
               to
               shiv'r
               at
               th'
               downfal
               of
               
                 Pauls
                 quire
              
               .
            
             
               Say
               we
               not
               well
               ,
               A
               gues
               will
               have
               their
               course
               ?
            
             
               Yes
               ,
               yes
               ,
               they
               must
               remember
               with
               remorse
            
             
               The
               
                 Ivy
                 Garland's
              
               withering
               ,
               dearth
               of
               Liquer
               .
            
             
               That
               would
               make
               
                 Caput
                 Mortuum
              
               the
               quicker
               .
            
             
               But
               why
               shouldst
               thou
               ,
               kind
               soul
               ,
               be
               in
               such
               fear
               ,
            
             
               That
               plump
               Lycëus
               should
               grow
               lean
               this
               year
               ?
            
             
               Hast
               thou
               forgot
               how
               fatal
               the
               Grape-stone
            
             
               Did
               whilom
               prove
               to
               poor
               Anacreon
               ?
            
             
               Which
               of
               the
               Muses
               ,
               or
               the
               Graces
               all
               ,
            
             
               Did
               ere
               for
               Claret
               or
               Canary
               call
               ?
            
             
               Is
               it
               not
               sung
               by
               the
               Venetian
               Swain
            
             
               How
               the
               brisk
               Wine
               gives
               horns
               to
               the
               poor
               man
               ?
            
             
               And
               if
               you
               have
               not
               greater
               care
               ,
               no
               doubt
            
             
               You
               'l
               find
               the
               Claret
               will
               revive
               your
               Gout
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               we
               shall
               hear
               thy
               Goose-gagling
               yaul
            
             
               Cry
               out
               for
               help
               to
               save
               thy
               Pedestall
               ;
            
             
               Then
               we
               shall
               see
               thee
               ,
               standing
               on
               one
               foot
               ,
            
             
               Practise
               worse
               tunes
               than
               Organs
               ever
               root
               .
            
             
               This
               is
               a
               vain
               presage
               ,
               thou
               say'st
               ;
               the
               Dead
            
             
               Have
               out-liv'd
               this
               and
               have
               
                 no
                 Gout
              
               to
               dread
               .
            
             
               But
               art
               thou
               dead
               indeed
               ?
               Though
               dead
               thou
               art
               ,
            
             
               Heark
               how
               the
               
                 dead
                 mans
                 bum
              
               does
               let
               a
               fart
               .
            
             
               When
               as
               my
               bashful
               Muse
               did
               to
               thee
               come
               ,
            
             
               'T
               was
               not
               so
               kindly
               done
               to
               turn
               thy
               bum
               ;
            
             
               To
               vote
               her
               of
               the
               
                 Babylonish
                 Crew
              
               ;
            
             
               And
               set
               the
               Furies
               on
               her
               with
               ha-loo
               .
            
             
               This
               't
               is
               to
               gad
               abroad
               ,
               't
               is
               just
               upon
               her
               ;
            
             
               Had
               Dina
               kept
               at
               home
               ,
               shee
               'd
               sav'd
               her
               Honour
               .
            
             
               But
               I
               'm
               
                 thy
                 Son
              
               ,
               and
               must
               corrected
               be
               ;
            
             
               But
               why
               then
               dost
               thou
               turn
               thy
               bum
               to
               me
               ?
            
             
               Dost
               think
               thy
               Son
               so
               sanguine
               &
               insano
               ,
            
             
               To
               probe
               thee
               with
               a
               Fistula
               
                 in
                 Ano.
              
            
             
               This
               I
               should
               leave
               to
               any
               of
               the
               Crew
               ,
            
             
               You
               may
               believe
               me
               though
               I
               were
               a
               Jew
               .
            
             
               And
               may
               my
               breath
               be
               still
               perfum'd
               ,
               why
               not
               ?
            
             
               Since
               dead
               Corps
               smell
               when
               they
               begin
               to
               rot
               .
            
             
               And
               he
               whose
               Muse
               such
               wondrous
               heights
               did
               fly
               ,
            
             
               That
               it
               did
               seem
               to
               top
               the
               very
               Sky
               ;
            
             
               And
               though
               he
               may
               have
               reason
               to
               be
               proud
               ,
            
             
               Instead
               of
               Juno
               did
               imbrace
               a
               Cloud
               ;
            
             
               May
               he
               resume
               King
               
                 Davids
                 Harp
              
               and
               play
            
             
               The
               Tarantul
               '
               of
               discontent
               away
               .
            
             
               If
               Denham
               has
               so
               fouly
               been
               betray'd
               ,
            
             
               And
               his
               Inclosure
               '
               gainst
               his
               will
               survey'd
               :
            
             
               May
               he
               recover
               all
               his
               Wits
               and
               more
               ,
            
             
               And
               with
               such
               keen
               Iambicks
               brand
               the
               Whore
               ,
            
             
               That
               all
               may
               dread
               it
               worse
               than
               loss
               of
               life
               ,
            
             
               To
               turn
               a
               Poet
               frantick
               for
               his
               Wife
               .
            
             
               Poor
               
                 Davenant's
                 Nose
              
               it
               seems
               is
               grown
               so
               sore
               ,
            
             
               It
               scarcely
               will
               abide
               one
               smart
               Jest
               more
               .
            
             
               Well
               may
               the
               bridge
               be
               down
               ,
               when
               Time
               doth
               meet
            
             
               To
               press
               it
               with
               his
               Satyr
               cloven-feet
               .
            
             
               And
               thou
               with
               thy
               Apocopes
               art
               wont
            
             
               To
               scatter
               balls
               of
               thy
               Wild-fire
               upon
               't
               .
            
             
               But
               shall
               I
               not
               ,
               
                 kind
                 Wild
              
               ,
               remember
               thee
               ,
            
             
               Who
               hast
               bequeath'd
               me
               such
               a
               Legacie
               ?
            
             
               'T
               is
               thine
               for
               life
               ,
               we
               know
               thy
               subtile
               head
               ;
            
             
               Wills
               have
               no
               force
               till
               the
               
               Testator's
               dead
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               none
               can
               have
               ought
               by
               thy
               bequest
            
             
               Till
               thou
               art
               better
               dead
               than
               in
               a
               Jest
               :
            
             
               Nor
               would
               I
               that
               in
               tenderness
               to
               me
            
             
               Thou
               shouldst
               suspect
               thine
               own
               sufficiencie
               ;
            
             
               Enjoy
               it
               freely
               ,
               since
               thou
               hast
               it
               wed
               :
            
             
               'T
               is
               Incest
               to
               ascend
               the
               Fathers
               bed
               .
            
             
               What
               though
               thou
               ownst
               me
               for
               thy
               
                 sanguine
                 Child
              
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               I
               have
               not
               so
               much
               my
               Sire
               of
               Wild.
            
             
               And
               thus
               far
               is
               thy
               Fry'r
               able
               to
               see
            
             
               His
               
               Covent's
               better
               than
               thy
               Nunnerie
               .
            
             
               He
               's
               loving
               too
               ,
               't
               is
               true
               ,
               he
               nothing
               gives
               ,
            
             
               As
               thou
               ,
               at
               his
               decease
               ,
               but
               while
               he
               lives
            
             
               All
               these
               
                 good
                 wishes
              
               ,
               such
               as
               he
               can
               spare
               ,
            
             
               And
               if
               thou
               hast
               them
               ,
               will
               help
               mend
               thy
               fare
               .
            
             
               May
               every
               Knight
               about
               us
               ,
               that
               's
               inclind
               ,
            
             
               Be
               unto
               thee
               ,
               as
               Sir
               
                 John
                 Baber
              
               ,
               kind
               .
            
             
               Ten
               Silver
               Crowns
               let
               each
               of
               them
               send
               thee
               ,
            
             
               And
               be
               so
               paid
               for
               all
               in
               Verse
               as
               he
               .
            
             
               May
               the
               
                 poor
                 Scholar
              
               ne're
               want
               
                 Sundays
                 Pudding
              
               ,
            
             
               When
               he
               's
               not
               like
               to
               preach
               for
               't
               
                 on
                 the
                 sudden
              
               .
            
             
               May
               thy
               afflicted
               Toe
               ne're
               feel
               the
               Gout
               ;
            
             
               Or
               if
               it
               must
               ,
               let
               the
               Dutch
               have
               a
               Rout
               ;
            
             
               That
               thou
               maist
               yet
               (
               at
               least
               )
               once
               more
               protest
            
             
               That
               Recipe
               wants
               no
               
                 Probatum
                 est
              
               .
            
             
               Maist
               thou
               next
               send
               me
               what
               is
               worth
               thy
               Pen
               ;
            
             
               May
               I
               have
               brains
               to
               answer
               it
               agen
               .
            
             
               May
               all
               that
               are
               of
               such
               
                 good
                 wishes
              
               sullen
               ,
            
             
               Live
               till
               their
               good
               Friends
               bury
               them
               in
               Woollen
               .
            
          
        
         
           
             Dr.
             Wild
             to
             Mr.
             Wanley
             .
          
           
             
               HOnestly
               done
               however
               ,
               though
               the
               Stuff
            
             
               You
               sent
               be
               course
               ,
               the
               measures
               
                 large
                 enough
              
               .
            
             
               The
               first
               Cup
               thou
               beganst
               I
               could
               not
               pass
               ,
            
             
               The
               Wine
               was
               brisk
               ,
               and
               in
               a
               little
               glass
               .
            
             
               But
               now
               to
               pledge
               thee
               I
               am
               not
               enclin'd
               ,
            
             
               You
               
                 Sons
                 o'
                 th
                 Church
              
               are
               for
               
                 large
                 draughts
              
               I
               find
               .
            
             
               Prithee
               leave
               off
               ,
               for
               thou
               hast
               been
               so
               free
            
             
               In
               sending
               such
               a
               brimmer
               unto
               me
               ,
            
             
               That
               Sunday
               last
               ,
               long
               of
               that
               frolick
               bout
               ,
            
             
               Thy
               Parish
               bad
               but
               
                 half
                 a
                 glass
              
               I
               doubt
               .
            
             
               Besides
               the
               drink
               
                 is
                 small
              
               ,
               you
               've
               chang'd
               your
               gill
               ,
            
             
               I
               wish
               you'd
               kept
               it
               in
               your
               hogs-head
               still
               .
            
             
               Yet
               ,
               upon
               better
               thoughts
               ,
               
                 small
                 drink
              
               is
               fit
            
             
               To
               cool
               the
               stomack
               ,
               though
               not
               help
               the
               wit
               ;
            
             
               And
               that
               might
               be
               thy
               case
               :
               for
               certainly
            
             
               Those
               
                 salt
                 bits
              
               I
               had
               sent
               thee
               
                 made
                 thee
                 dry
              
               ,
            
             
               Or
               sick
               ,
               which
               made
               thee
               drink
               
                 small
                 drink
              
               ,
               and
               strain
            
             
               To
               cast
               them
               undigested
               up
               again
               .
            
             
               Twelve
               lines
               return'd
               the
               very
               same
               ,
               that
               I
            
             
               Must
               call
               the
               Hickup
               ,
               rather
               than
               Reply
               ;
            
             
               Or
               ,
               by
               rebounding
               of
               my
               words
               ,
               I
               dread
            
             
               There
               is
               some
               Eccho
               in
               thine
               
                 empty
                 head
              
               :
            
             
               Or
               rather
               thou
               my
               Cockril
               art
               ,
               and
               so
            
             
               The
               
                 young
                 one
                 learneth
                 of
                 the
                 old
                 to
                 crow
                 .
              
            
             
               Nay
               ,
               my
               brave
               Bird
               ,
               thou
               darest
               spur
               and
               peck
               ,
            
             
               I
               wish
               that
               Shrovetide
               hazard
               not
               thy
               neck
               .
            
             
               Now
               prithee
               Chick
               beware
               ,
               for
               though
               I
               find
            
             
               That
               thou
               art
               right
               and
               of
               the
               
                 fighting
                 kind
              
               ,
            
             
               Yet
               thou
               art
               not
               my
               Match
               ,
               and
               soon
               wilt
               feel
            
             
               My
               Gout
               lies
               in
               my
               Toe
               ,
               not
               in
               my
               Heel
               .
            
             
               Take
               this
               advice
               before
               you
               mean
               to
               fight
               ,
            
             
               Get
               your
               
                 Comb
                 cut
              
               ,
               and
               leave
               your
               treading
               quite
               .
            
             
               Thy
               Barber
               ,
               or
               his
               Wife
               ,
               if
               he
               should
               fail
               ,
            
             
               Has
               skill
               to
               
                 clip
                 thy
                 wings
              
               ,
               and
               
                 trim
                 thy
                 tayl
              
               ;
            
             
               And
               thereby
               hangs
               another
               Tayl
               ,
               I
               find
            
             
               Thy
               
                 subtile
                 nose
              
               hath
               got
               my
               
                 breech
                 i'
                 th'
                 wind
              
               .
            
             
               If
               thou
               canst
               catch
               
                 poor
                 farts
              
               that
               Prison
               break
               ,
            
             
               A
               notable
               Bumbayliff
               thou
               wilt
               make
               .
            
             
               Hark
               ,
               hark
               ,
               saist
               thou
               ,
               
                 he
                 let
                 a
                 fart
              
               !
               what
               though
               ?
            
             
               It
               breaths
               forth
               
                 no
                 Sedition
              
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               I
               trow
               ;
            
             
               Nor
               is
               there
               any
               Statute
               of
               our
               Nation
            
             
               That
               sayes
               ,
               in
               
                 five
                 miles
              
               of
               a
               Corporation
            
             
               If
               any
               Outed-man
               a
               Fart
               should
               vent
               ,
            
             
               That
               you
               should
               apprehend
               the
               Innocent
               .
            
             
               If
               you
               so
               soon
               could
               smell
               the
               Pouder-Plot
               ,
            
             
               What
               had
               you
               said
               if
               I
               had
               bullets
               shot
               ?
            
             
               Fye
               man
               !
               our
               mouths
               were
               stopped
               long
               ago
               .
            
             
               And
               would
               you
               have
               us
               silent
               too
               below
               ?
            
             
               But
               I
               displaid
               
                 my
                 bum
              
               before
               
                 thine
                 eyes
              
            
             
               Unkindly
               thou
               saist
               ,
               I
               say
               otherwise
               ;
            
             
               For
               there
               thou
               mightst
               have
               thy
               resemblance
               took
               ,
            
             
               Dead
               mens
               blind
               cheeks
               do
               very
               Wanley
               look
               .
            
             
               And
               for
               the
               crack
               it
               gave
               ,
               that
               did
               but
               mind
               thee
            
             
               To
               strive
               to
               leave
               a
               
                 good
                 report
                 behind
              
               thee
               .
            
             
               As
               for
               the
               gall
               which
               in
               your
               Ink
               appears
               ,
            
             
               That
               
                 in
                 our
                 Sufferings
                 we
                 are
                 Volunteers
              
               ;
            
             
               I
               'le
               not
               say
               much
               ,
               I
               have
               more
               wit
               than
               so
               ,
            
             
               '
               
                 T
                 is
                 scurvy
                 jesting
                 with
                 edg-tools
              
               I
               know
               :
            
             
               But
               Sir
               ,
               't
               is
               cruelty
               in
               you
               ,
               
                 to
                 whip
              
            
             
               Your
               
                 Brothers
                 back
              
               which
               you
               did
               
                 help
                 to
                 strip
              
               :
            
             
               Yet
               thus
               your
               Grandsire
               Levi
               did
               before
               ,
            
             
               Who
               
                 kild
                 those
              
               ,
               whom
               his
               
                 Cov'nant
                 had
                 made
                 sore
              
               .
            
             
               And
               you
               know
               who
               they
               were
               that
               gave
               the
               blow
               ,
            
             
               And
               then
               cry'd
               ,
               
                 Prophesie
                 who
                 smote
                 thee
                 so
              
               ?
            
             
               We
               durst
               not
               keep
               our
               Livings
               for
               our
               lives
               ,
            
             
               But
               
                 they
                 must
                 needs
                 go
                 whom
                 the
                 Devil
                 drives
                 .
              
            
             
               Yea
               ,
               
                 but
                 we
                 left
                 our
                 Harvest
                 ,
                 left
                 our
                 Sheep
                 ,
              
            
             
               And
               ,
               
                 would
                 not
                 work
                 ,
                 in
                 one
                 ,
                 nor
                 th'
                 other
                 keep
                 .
              
            
             
               I
               answer
               .
               No
               great
               Harvest
               yet
               appears
               ,
            
             
               I
               'm
               sure
               your
               Churches
               hang
               but
               thin
               with
               ears
               .
            
             
               And
               though
               the
               Foxes
               breed
               ,
               what
               need
               you
               care
               ,
            
             
               When-as
               your
               Shepherds
               such
               Fox-catchers
               are
               .
            
             
               For
               pardon
               ,
               Sir
               ,
               my
               serious
               soul
               now
               cryes
               ,
            
             
               Your
               knocking
               me
               did
               make
               this
               froth
               to
               rise
               .
            
             
               Once
               for
               my
               Age
               ,
               Profession
               and
               Degree
               ,
            
             
               To
               fool
               thus
               is
               enough
               ,
               and
               Twice
               for
               thee
               .
            
             
               Thus
               great
               Estates
               b'imprudent
               owners
               may
               ,
            
             
               When
               stak'd
               at
               Ticktack
               ,
               soon
               be
               plaid
               away
               .
            
             
               Let
               's
               wind
               this
               folly
               up
               in
               this
               last
               sheet
               ,
            
             
               And
               
                 friendly
                 part
              
               ,
               as
               we
               did
               
                 friendly
                 meet
              
               .
            
             
               Yet
               ,
               to
               requite
               thy
               Legacy
               to
               me
               ,
            
             
               Accept
               this
               Litany
               I
               send
               to
               thee
               .
            
             
               
                 May
                 thy
                 rich
                 Parts
                 with
                 saving
                 Grace
                 be
                 joyn'd
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 As
                 Diamonds
                 in
                 Rings
                 of
                 Gold
                 enshrin'd
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 May
                 he
                 that
                 made
                 thy
                 Stars
                 ,
                 create
                 a
                 Sphear
              
            
             
               
                 Of
                 heavenly
                 frame
                 of
                 life
                 ,
                 and
                 fix
                 them
                 there
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 May
                 that
                 blest
                 Life
                 credit
              
               Conformitie
               ,
            
             
               
                 And
                 make
                 e'ven
              
               Puritans
               
                 to
                 honour
                 thee
              
               .
            
             
               
                 Maist
                 thou
                 to
                 Christ
                 such
                 store
                 of
                 Converts
                 brings
                 ,
              
            
             
               
                 That
                 he
                 whose
                 place
                 thou
                 fill'st
                 ,
                 for
                 joy
                 may
                 sing
                 .
              
            
             
               
                 May
                 God
                 love
                 you
                 ,
                 and
                 you
                 love
                 God
                 again
              
               ;
            
             
               
                 And
                 may
                 these
                 Prayers
                 of
                 mine
                 not
                 be
                 in
                 vain
                 .
              
            
          
        
      
    
     
       
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           in
           the
           Year
           ,
           1668.
           
        
      
    
  

