







 
   
     
       
         An answer to old Doctor Wild's new poem to his old friend upon the new Parliament by Grand-Syre Gray-beard, the Younger.
         Grand-Syre Gray-Beard, the Younger.
      
       
         
           1672
        
      
       Approx. 7 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 4 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images.
       
         Text Creation Partnership,
         Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :
         2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).
         A25564
         Wing A3371
         ESTC R16444
         11930344
         ocm 11930344
         51093
         
           
            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. A25564)
         Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 51093)
         Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 48:27)
      
       
         
           
             An answer to old Doctor Wild's new poem to his old friend upon the new Parliament by Grand-Syre Gray-beard, the Younger.
             Grand-Syre Gray-Beard, the Younger.
          
           4 p.
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             ca. 1672]
          
           
             In verse.
             Caption title.
             Place and date of publication from Wing.
             Reproduction of original in Huntington 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
      
       
         
           Wild, Robert, 1609-1679.
           England and Wales. -- Parliament -- Poetry.
           Political poetry, English.
        
      
    
     
        2007-09 TCP
        Assigned for keying and markup
      
        2007-11 Aptara
        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
        2007-12 Mona Logarbo
        Sampled and proofread
      
        2007-12 Mona Logarbo
        Text and markup reviewed and edited
      
        2008-02 pfs
        Batch review (QC) and XML conversion
      
    
  
   
     
       
         
         
           AN
           ANSWER
           TO
           
             Old
             Doctor
             Wild's
             New
             Poem
          
           ,
           TO
           HIS
           OLD
           FRIEND
           ,
           UPON
           THE
           NEW
           PARLIAMENT
           .
        
         
           By
           Grand-Syre
           Gray-beard
           ,
           the
           Younger
           .
        
         
           THus
           't
           is
           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
           't
           is
           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
           Fumbler
           ;
        
         
           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
           ,
        
         
           'T
           is
           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
             &
             Vermin
          
           .
        
         
           
             Then
             cry'st
             to
          
           Longlane
           with
           them
           New
           put
           on
           ;
        
         
           Sweet
           Sir
           !
           't
           is
           timely
           thought
           of
           ,
           may
           't
           be
           done
           .
        
         
           But
           best
           make
           haste
           e're
           
             Ketches
             Wardrobe
             's
             gone
          
           .
        
         
           Thinkst
           thou
           (
           WILD
           as
           thou
           art
           :
           )
           such
           Language
           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
           
             Vniversal
             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
           let
           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
             ,
          
           
             Until
             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.
             
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
  

