hy Muse
Some smooth weak Rhymer, that so gently flowes,
That Ladies may his easy strains admire,
And melt like Wax before the softning fire.
Let such to Women write, you write to Men;
We study thee, when we but play with them.

* * * * *

Sir _JOHN BERKENHEAD_.

Sir _John Berkenhead_ was a Gentleman, whose Worth and deserts were too
high for me to delineate. He was a constant Assertor of his Majesties
Cause in its lowest Condition, painting the Rebels forth to the life in
his _Mercurius Aulicus_ and other Writings; his _Zany Brittanicus_ who
wrote against him, being no more his Equal, than a Dwarf to a Gyant, or
the goodness of his cause to that of the Kings; for this his Loyalty he
suffered several Imprisonments, yet always constant to his first
Principles. His skill in Poetry was such, that one thus writes of him.

Whil'st Lawrel sprigs anothers head shall Crown,
Thou the whole Grove mayst challenge as thy Own.

He survived to see his Majesties happy Restoration, and some of them
hanged who used their best endeavor to do the same by him. As for his
learned Writings, those who are ignorant of them, must plead ignorance
both to Wit and Learning.

* * * * *

Dr. _ROBERT WILD_.

He was one, and not of the meanest of the Poetical Cassock, being in
some sort a kind of an _Anti-Cleaveland_, writing as high, and standing
up as stifly for the _Presbyterians_, as ever _Cleaveland_ did against
them: But that which most recommended him to publick fame, was his
_Iter Roreale_, the same in Title though not in Argument, with that
little, but much commended Poem of Dr. _Corbets_ mentioned before. This
being upon General _Monk's_ Journey out of _Scotland_, in order to his
Majesties Restoration, and is indeed the Cream and flower of all his
Works, and look't upon for a lofty and conceited Stile. His other
things are for the most part of a tepid and facetious nature,
reflecting on others, who as sharply retorted upon him, for he that
throwes stones at other, 'tis ten to one but is hit with a stone
himself; one of them playing upon his red face thus. I _like the Man
that carries in his Face,_ _the tincture of that bloody banner he
fights under, and would not have any Mans countenance, prove so much an
Hypocrite to cross a French Proverb._

His Nose plainly proves,
What pottage he loves.

Hear one of their reflections upon hi