University of Virginia Library

[Nichols's History of Leicestershire.]

On Mr. Bancroft his Glutton's Fever.

In Bosworth-feild the white-rose redd in blood,
The redd grew white; and thence grew all our good,
Sweet princes, and sweet peace; all joyes that fill
All angles of this Isle. On Ambeame hill
Our Caesar's garland grew; wherin he sitts
Crown'd the sole patrone of all learned witts.
Our (but unwanton, untempestuous) Jove,
Our tow'ring Eagle, and our stouping Dove.
This is, and shall be, Chronicle: but till
This howre I never heard of Bancroft's hill,
Or Muses' springs therin; nor could I dreame
From Bosworth schole to reade so riche a theame.
A man obscure, an usher to do this;
This polisht worke, this more than master-piece.
But wonders are not wonders in the raigne
Of our Augustus, peaceful Charle-le-maine.
For which (as once that conquering Richmond hadd
The crowne of golde) some abler hand might add
A wreath of bayes to thy victorious browe,
Which to my powre I here present thee now.
And first salute thee Poet; and that name
From me, strikes Envy blind, and Malice lame.
Reading thy strains, methinks I heard the same
From him that was our Academies' shame;
Our pullpitts' glorie; and I would be glad
Our plain-song priests but halph thy descant had:
They then, although they liv'd and died in prose,
Might use their tongues, and not misuse their nose.
How shall I name thy fabrick? A free-schole
For court and country: New Bethesday's poole;
Where bedd-ridd soules despairing, coucht in synn,
Helpt by thy hand, and by thy penne put in,
After a motion of repentant teares,
Catch angell thoughts, and lose their devilish feares.
Call it a beacon, or a larum-bell;
Another arke, where all within are well;
The hovering dove, from waterie wildernesse
Comes here in peace, hir wearie wings to dresse;
But carrion crowes, the gluttons' brotherhood,
That never lawe nor prophets understood;
(Deriding preachers) hurle thy booke away,
Or else account it but a puppet play.
O reade it once, twice; if your hearts it wound,
Reade it againe, and it will sett you sound.
Dives himselfe in hell, might he but looke
And reade, might yet be saved by his booke.

An Elegie I made on Mr. Francis Beaumont, dying 1615–16 at Westminster.

Unto thy ever-loved memory,
And o'er thy hearse, this weeping Elegie
Shedds hee, who to restore thee, as thou wert
Once a full perfect man, would spend his heart;
And 't were a blest fate, if such things as I,
To make thee live, might but by myriades die.
Yet fond Philosophie will prate, and dare
Tell us mens souls alike and equall are.
O, 'tis an odious lie, made out of pride;
Thine was as large as halph the world beside:
And as old wives imagine to this day,
The moon to starrs each month is clipt away,
Whence heaven is fill'd; if thy most ample witt,
Or just so much, God took and parted it
To dramms and grains, the purest and the best
Would furnish fortie colledges at least
(I think); the refuse I am sure would bee
Too good for th'Inns a Court and Chancerie.
'Tis true there be some able witts alive,
(Though very fewe), about a fowr or five;
But which of theise is natural and free,
Not prentise to long art and industrie;
Which, with mere labour, all that they can doo
Is patching up an old drie bobb or two
To make a lord laugh, or some lady gaye
A bracelett or a jewell cast away?
But (which pure Nature only did refine)
A braine that could conceive so quick as thine,
And be delivered so without all paine,
Ile never looke to meet the like againe.
All such sleight sylly things as I might steale
Witt, that thou threwst away at every meale
(When first I knew thee), with good husbandrie,
Able to serve us till the day we die.
The Jesuits that trace witt and subtiltye,
And are mere cryticks in Divinitie;
Who to the soadring a crackt cause allow
Sett fees for every new distinction; thou
By a clean strength of witt and judgment wert
Well able to confound, if not convert.
Have we not cause then to lament thee dead?
Death, I acknowledge thee the supreme head
Over all persons: God haes given thee sway
In thy two kingdomes of the earth and sea.
I knew thee mighty; but I thought thou wert
More wise, and lesse maliciouse then thou art.
For, being re-advis'd his death will show
To be a foolish and a spitefull blow.
For was it wisedome in a rage to kill
Him, for the very last words that his quill
Lett fall, instructing ladies how their lives
Are best preserv'd, with no[e] preservatives;
Since he well knew, if this way were denied,
Thou hadst a thousand entrances besides.
Alasse, he wrote it in none hate to thee:
His frequent wishes for thy company,
And, when thou cam'st, embraces, gave good proof
He ever lov'd and lik'd thee well enough.
How comes it with thy friends so angrie growne
Thou art, and tak'st pett; letting such alone
Whose every writing gives a foule offence,
And all their deeds defie thine excellence?
Looke in that place where thou didst last contrive
His death: they swarme as bees about the hive;
Which do disgrace (for theise no lawyers be)
And staine that needfull, noble facultie,
The sinews of our state, to which they grow
As heresies, or as diseases doo;
Atturneys, punies, clerks, solicitors,
Encamping and uniting all their force
'Gainst thee: their gunns are bouncing inkhorns, and
Their armour skins of beasts; their penns a stand
Of pikes and launces; and their watch-word Fees;
With buckram knapsacks fill'd with pilferies.
Yet is their language worse than mutinie,
Drowning thy dradd name in obscuritie
By talke of leases, states, assurances,
Possessions, tenures, and recoveries,
Lives, and three lives; which suff'ring, look to see,
Shortly thy state adjudg'd a nullitie.
Then thou art dead in law, and nothing lacks
But roubing thee in calve-skinns balm'd in waxe.
If thou beest sensible of wrong, then mend
This geare; and like a ravening storke descend
Among theise froggs, whose hideous number crall
And cover ore the land; and now they fall
To building castles, and to fortifie
In each fatt place, like a new monkerie.
Do but enquire, as you travell still,
Of every faire house upon everie hill,
And everie one will tell thee, here does live
Such a law-driver, nine times under-shreive;
And there dwells such a one, solicitour
To such a lord, that was not long before
A petitefogger, sprouted from a clark's
Mann's boy that wypt boots; yet such wretched sharkes,
Such things not worth the thinking on as theise,
In spight of thee, still grow in wealth and ease.
I should believe, but that you canst not see,
And art impartiall, they had bribed thee.
Sure thou wilt shortly, though you give them scope
Awhile, lett in the Devill or the Pope,
And make a skuffle: or is't policie
In thee to lett them waxe and multiplie,
And (like ranke weeds) ore-topping other men,
Possesse the land themselfs alone; and then
This dragon-tongu'd fraternitie (as they
That sprung of teeth) shall one another slaye?
Thy follie thus excus'd, I yet must judge
Thou slewst him for a spitefull secret grudge,
'Cause those quick lines from his live Muse did passe
Have marble shedd and everlasting brasse
Over three ladies, which still fresh shall be,
And live to thy disgrace in memorie.
This did so vexe thee, Death, that thou were faine
To hire an apoplexe, to shend his braine,
Till thou couldst come thyselfe, and hinder so
That sprightly nectar which from it did flow;
And yet his puissant witt was nere so drie,
But even in midst of most infirmitie
It crown'd his last worke with so faire an end,
'Twould puzzle the best witts alive to mend.
And now, although his life on earth be done,
Thou hast gain'd nothing; he haes; it's begunne
In Heaven more glorious; wher that sacred head,
'Mongst Saints and Angells, is canonised;
And men shall henceforth, when they mean to frame
A wittie poem, invocate his name
The new Saint Francis; and those fewe that are
Able to lead their liues so regular
(Though ne'er in all points so exact) as hee
Shall a new order of Franciscans bee.