TO Dr. JOHN SPEED of Southampton. 

An EPISTLE, Occasion'd by his Ingenious Satyr on the Dissenters, mingled with his Encomium of Mr. Lloyd's Paraphrase on Solomon's Song, printed in 8vo. 1682.

TRUE Son of Phoebus, Heir t' his Tuneful Quill,
 His murthering Arrows, and his healing Skill:
 Thy Bills his Med'cines are, his Lyre thy Song,
 Thine Heart his Quiver, and his Bow thy Tongue:
 But here's no Python: Sooth thine Arms a while,
 And charm thy stately Rigor to a Smile,
 For Schism prevails no more; we love to see
 Our Words and Lines in Couplings well agree
 Nor do we thus abhor Conformity. 
Hymns may be soft and smooth and comely Drest
 With humane Art, nor savour of the Beast,
 A Lyrick Ode submits to Godly Notes;
 Harmonious Words no more offend our Throats. 
Nor Rhime, nor Tune, nor Sacred Sense confines
 The Spirit, Freedom flows in tuneful Lines,
 And Conscience feels the Pleasure, nor complains
 Of Impositions, Prisons, Bonds, and Chains,
 Whilst pure Devotion sings and ANNE th' Indulgent Reigns. 

Then, Sir, Submit with Joy thine Iron Stile
 To the soft Polish of a gentle File;
 The Courteous Muse shines brightest; and 'tis fit
 Apollo's Heir should deal in kinder Wit. 
SPEED to his Lute in Artful Numbers sings
 Melodious; till his Angry Bow he brings
 Across the Chorded Shell, and hurts the gentler Strings.