University of Virginia Library

An Epitaph on Master Vincent Corbet.

I Have my Pietie too, which could
It vent it selfe, but as it would,
Would say as much, as both have done
Before me here, the Friend and Sonne;
For I both lost a friend and Father,
Of him whose bones this Grave doth gather:
Deare Vincent Corbet who so long
Had wrestled with Diseases strong,

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That though they did possesse each limbe,
Yet he broke them, e're they could him,
With the just Canon of his life,
A life that knew nor noise, nor strife:
But was by sweetning so his will,
All order, and Disposure, still
His Mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his Nourceries; and swept
So of uncleannesse, or offence,
That never came ill odour thence:
And adde his Actions unto these,
They were as specious as his Trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend
His very Manners, taught t'amend,
They were so even, grave, and holy;
No stubbornnesse so stiffe, nor folly
To licence ever was so light,
As twice to trespasse in his sight,
His lookes would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet not the Men.
Much from him I professe I wonne,
And more, and more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant,
Now I conceive him by my want,
And pray who shall my sorrowes read,
That they for me their teares will shed;
For truly, since he left to be,
I feele, I'm rather dead than he?