 | Certain Elegant Poems |  |
TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE Lady Teynham:
Her humble Servant N. N. wisheth
eternall Beauty, both in this world, and the world to come.
1
Iter Boreale.
Foure Clerks of Oxford, Doctors two, and two,
That would be Doctors, having lesse to doe
With Austin, then with Galen, in Vacation
Chang'd studies, and turn'd bookes to recreation
And on the tenth of August Northward bent,
A journey not so soone conceiv'd as spent.
That would be Doctors, having lesse to doe
With Austin, then with Galen, in Vacation
Chang'd studies, and turn'd bookes to recreation
And on the tenth of August Northward bent,
A journey not so soone conceiv'd as spent.
The first halfe day they rode, they light upon
A Noble Clergy host, Kitt Middleton;
Who numbring out good dishes with good tales,
The major part o'th cheere weigh'd downe the scales,
And though the count'nance make the feast, say bookes;
Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes:
Here we payd thankes, and parted, and at night
Had entertainment all in one mans right,
At Flowre, a Village, where our Tenant shee
Sharpe as a winter morning, fierce, yet free,
With a leane visage like a Carved lace
On a Court-cupboard, offer'd up the Place.
She pleas'd us well, but yet her husband better,
A hearty fellow and a good bone-setter;
Now whither it were providence or lucke,
Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke,
There we had ven'son such as Virgill slew,
When he would feast Æneas and his crew;
Here we consum'd a day, and the next morne,
To Daintry with a Land-winde wee were borne,
It was the Market, and the Lecture day,
For Lecturers sell Sermons, as the Lay
Doe sheepe and Oxen, have their seasons just,
For both their Markets, there wee dranke downe dust.
I'th' interim comes a most officious drudge,
His face and gowne draw'd out with the same budge,
His pendant pouch which was both large and wide,
Look'd like a Letters-patents by his side:
He was as awfull as he had beene sent
From Moses with the eleventh Commandement,
And one of us he sought, a man of Flower
He must bid stand, and challenge for an hower:
The Doctors both were quitted of their feare,
The one was hoarse, the other was not there,
Therefore him of the two he seised best,
Able to answer him of all the rest,
Because he needs but ruminate that ore,
Which he had chew'd the Sabbath day before;
For though we were resolv'd to doe him right,
For Master Bayleys sake, and Master Wright,
Yet he dissembl'd that the Mace did erre,
For he nor Deacon was, nor Minister;
No quoth the Serjeant, sure then by relation,
You have a licence Sir, or Toleration;
And if you have no orders 'tis the better,
So you have Dods precepts, or Cleavers letter;
Thus looking on his Mace and urging still,
'Twas Master Wrights, and Master Bayleys will,
That he should mount, at last he condescended
To stoppe the gap, and so the Treaty ended;
The Sermon pleas'd, and when we were to dine,
Wee all had Preachers wages, thankes, and wine.
Our next dayes stage was Littleworth a Towne
Not willing to be noted, or set downe,
By any Traveller, for when we had beene
Through at both ends, wee could not find an Inne,
Yet for the Church sake turne and light wee must,
Hoping to finde one dramme of Wickless dust,
But wee found none, for underneath the Pole,
No more rests of his body, then his Soule,
Abused Martyr, how hast thou beene to me,
By two wilde factions! first the Papists burne
Thy bones for hate, the Puritanes in zeale
Doe sell thy Marble, and thy Brasse they steale.
A Parson met us there who had great store
Of Livings, some say, but of Manners more;
In whose streight cheerefull age a man might see
Well govern'd fortune, bounty, wise and free;
He was our guide to Lester, save one mile,
There was his dwelling where wee stay'd a while
And dranke stale Beere, I thinke was never new,
Which the dunne wench that brought it us did brew;
And now wee are at Lester, where wee shall
Leape o're sixe steeples and an Hospitall
Twice told, those Lande-markes I referre
To Gambdens eye, Englands Chronographer;
Let me observe the Almes mens Herauldry,
Who being ask'd what Henry that should bee
That was their founder Duke of Lancaster,
Answer'd, 'Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you Sir;
And so consuted all their walls that said;
Henry of Richmond this foundation laid.
The next thing to be noted was our Cheere,
Enlarg'd with seaven and six pence, bread and beere.
But O you wretched Tapsters as you are,
Who reckon by your number, not your fare;
And set false figures for all Companies,
Abusing innocent Meales, with oathes and lyes;
Forbeare your Cousnage to Divines that come,
Lest they bee thought to drinke all that you summe.
Spare not the laity in your reckoning thus,
But sure your theft to us is scandalous.
Away my Muse from this base Subject, know
Thy Pegasus nere strucke his foote so low:
Is not th'usurping Richard buryed hero,
That King of hate, and therefore slave of feare;
Drag'd from the fatall field Bosworth, where hee
Lost life, and what he liv'd for, Cruelty?
Search, finde his name, but there is none; O Kings
Remember whence your Powre, and vastnesse springs:
If not as Richard now, so may you bee,
Who hath no Tombe, but Scorne and Memorie.
And though from his owne store Wolsey might have
A Palace, or a Colledge for his grave;
Yet here he lyes interr'd, as if that all
Of him to be remembred were his fall:
Nothing but earth to earth, nor pompous weight
Upon him but a pebble, or a quayte.
If thou art thus neglected, what shall wee
Hope after death that are but shreds of thee?
Hold! William calls to horse, William is he,
Who though he never saw threescore and three,
Ore-reckon'd us in age, as he before
In drink, and will bate nothing of fourescore;
And he commands, as if the warrant came,
From the great Earle himselfe, to Notinghame:
There wee crosse Trent, and on the other side
Pray'd for Saint Andrew, as up hill wee ride.
Where wee observ'd the cunning men like Moles
Dwelt not in houses, but were earth'd in holes.
So did they not build upwards, but digge thorough,
As Hermits Caves, or Coneys doe their Borough.
Great underminers sute as any where,
'Tis thought the powder Traytors practis'd there.
Would you not thinke that men stood on their heads,
When Gardens cover houses there, like leads,
And on the Chimnies toppe, the maide may know,
Whether her pottage boyle, or not, below;
There cast in herbes, or Salt, or bread, her meate,
Contented rather with the smoake, then heate.
This was the rockie Parish, higher stood
Churches and houses, buildings, stone and wood,
Crosses not yet demolish'd, and our Lady,
With her armes on, embracing her whole Baby:
Where let us note, though these be Northerne parts,
The Crosse findes in them more then Southerne harts.
The Castle's next; but what shall wee report,
Of that which now is ruine, was a fort?
The Gates, two Statues keepe, which Gyants are,
To whom, it seemes, committed is the care
Of the whole downefall, if it be your fault,
If you are guilty, may King Davids vault
Or Mortimers darke Cell containe you both,
A just reward for so prophane a sloath;
And if hereafter tydings shall be brought
Of any place, or office to be bought,
And your left lead, or unwedg'd timber yet
Shall passe by your consent to purchase it,
May your deformed Bulkes endure the edge
Of axes, feele the beetle and the wedge,
May all the ballads be call'd in and dye,
That sing the wars of Colebrand, and Sir Guy:
O yee that do Guild Hall and Holmby keepe
So carefully when both the Founders sleepe,
You are good Gyants, and partake no shame,
With these two worthlesse trunks of Notingham:
Looke to your sev'rall charges, we must go,
Though griev'd at heart to leave a Castle so.
The Bull-head is the word, and we must eate,
No sorrow can descend so low as meate:
So to the Inne we came, where our best cheere,
Was that his Grace of Yorke had lodged there.
He was objected to us when we call,
Or dislike ought, my Lords Grace answers all;
He was contented with this bed, this dyet,
This keeps our discontented stomacks quiet.
The Inne keeper was old, fourescore almost,
Indeed an Embleme, rather then an Host;
In whom wee read how God and Time decree,
To honour thrifty Hostlers, such as he:
For, in the stable first he did begin,
Now see he is sole Lord of the whole Inne.
Marke the increase of straw, and hay, and how
By thrift a bottle may become a Mow,
Marke him all yee that have the golden Itch,
All whom God hath condemned to be rich;
Farewell glad father of thy daughter Mayresse,
Thou Hostler Phænix, thy example rare is.
A Noble Clergy host, Kitt Middleton;
Who numbring out good dishes with good tales,
The major part o'th cheere weigh'd downe the scales,
And though the count'nance make the feast, say bookes;
Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes:
Here we payd thankes, and parted, and at night
Had entertainment all in one mans right,
At Flowre, a Village, where our Tenant shee
Sharpe as a winter morning, fierce, yet free,
With a leane visage like a Carved lace
On a Court-cupboard, offer'd up the Place.
2
A hearty fellow and a good bone-setter;
Now whither it were providence or lucke,
Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke,
There we had ven'son such as Virgill slew,
When he would feast Æneas and his crew;
Here we consum'd a day, and the next morne,
To Daintry with a Land-winde wee were borne,
It was the Market, and the Lecture day,
For Lecturers sell Sermons, as the Lay
Doe sheepe and Oxen, have their seasons just,
For both their Markets, there wee dranke downe dust.
I'th' interim comes a most officious drudge,
His face and gowne draw'd out with the same budge,
His pendant pouch which was both large and wide,
Look'd like a Letters-patents by his side:
He was as awfull as he had beene sent
From Moses with the eleventh Commandement,
And one of us he sought, a man of Flower
He must bid stand, and challenge for an hower:
The Doctors both were quitted of their feare,
The one was hoarse, the other was not there,
Therefore him of the two he seised best,
Able to answer him of all the rest,
Because he needs but ruminate that ore,
Which he had chew'd the Sabbath day before;
For though we were resolv'd to doe him right,
For Master Bayleys sake, and Master Wright,
Yet he dissembl'd that the Mace did erre,
For he nor Deacon was, nor Minister;
No quoth the Serjeant, sure then by relation,
You have a licence Sir, or Toleration;
3
So you have Dods precepts, or Cleavers letter;
Thus looking on his Mace and urging still,
'Twas Master Wrights, and Master Bayleys will,
That he should mount, at last he condescended
To stoppe the gap, and so the Treaty ended;
The Sermon pleas'd, and when we were to dine,
Wee all had Preachers wages, thankes, and wine.
Our next dayes stage was Littleworth a Towne
Not willing to be noted, or set downe,
By any Traveller, for when we had beene
Through at both ends, wee could not find an Inne,
Yet for the Church sake turne and light wee must,
Hoping to finde one dramme of Wickless dust,
But wee found none, for underneath the Pole,
No more rests of his body, then his Soule,
Abused Martyr, how hast thou beene to me,
By two wilde factions! first the Papists burne
Thy bones for hate, the Puritanes in zeale
Doe sell thy Marble, and thy Brasse they steale.
A Parson met us there who had great store
Of Livings, some say, but of Manners more;
In whose streight cheerefull age a man might see
Well govern'd fortune, bounty, wise and free;
He was our guide to Lester, save one mile,
There was his dwelling where wee stay'd a while
And dranke stale Beere, I thinke was never new,
Which the dunne wench that brought it us did brew;
And now wee are at Lester, where wee shall
Leape o're sixe steeples and an Hospitall
Twice told, those Lande-markes I referre
To Gambdens eye, Englands Chronographer;
4
Who being ask'd what Henry that should bee
That was their founder Duke of Lancaster,
Answer'd, 'Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you Sir;
And so consuted all their walls that said;
Henry of Richmond this foundation laid.
The next thing to be noted was our Cheere,
Enlarg'd with seaven and six pence, bread and beere.
But O you wretched Tapsters as you are,
Who reckon by your number, not your fare;
And set false figures for all Companies,
Abusing innocent Meales, with oathes and lyes;
Forbeare your Cousnage to Divines that come,
Lest they bee thought to drinke all that you summe.
Spare not the laity in your reckoning thus,
But sure your theft to us is scandalous.
Away my Muse from this base Subject, know
Thy Pegasus nere strucke his foote so low:
Is not th'usurping Richard buryed hero,
That King of hate, and therefore slave of feare;
Drag'd from the fatall field Bosworth, where hee
Lost life, and what he liv'd for, Cruelty?
Search, finde his name, but there is none; O Kings
Remember whence your Powre, and vastnesse springs:
If not as Richard now, so may you bee,
Who hath no Tombe, but Scorne and Memorie.
And though from his owne store Wolsey might have
A Palace, or a Colledge for his grave;
Yet here he lyes interr'd, as if that all
Of him to be remembred were his fall:
Nothing but earth to earth, nor pompous weight
Upon him but a pebble, or a quayte.
5
Hope after death that are but shreds of thee?
Hold! William calls to horse, William is he,
Who though he never saw threescore and three,
Ore-reckon'd us in age, as he before
In drink, and will bate nothing of fourescore;
And he commands, as if the warrant came,
From the great Earle himselfe, to Notinghame:
There wee crosse Trent, and on the other side
Pray'd for Saint Andrew, as up hill wee ride.
Where wee observ'd the cunning men like Moles
Dwelt not in houses, but were earth'd in holes.
So did they not build upwards, but digge thorough,
As Hermits Caves, or Coneys doe their Borough.
Great underminers sute as any where,
'Tis thought the powder Traytors practis'd there.
Would you not thinke that men stood on their heads,
When Gardens cover houses there, like leads,
And on the Chimnies toppe, the maide may know,
Whether her pottage boyle, or not, below;
There cast in herbes, or Salt, or bread, her meate,
Contented rather with the smoake, then heate.
This was the rockie Parish, higher stood
Churches and houses, buildings, stone and wood,
Crosses not yet demolish'd, and our Lady,
With her armes on, embracing her whole Baby:
Where let us note, though these be Northerne parts,
The Crosse findes in them more then Southerne harts.
The Castle's next; but what shall wee report,
Of that which now is ruine, was a fort?
The Gates, two Statues keepe, which Gyants are,
To whom, it seemes, committed is the care
6
If you are guilty, may King Davids vault
Or Mortimers darke Cell containe you both,
A just reward for so prophane a sloath;
And if hereafter tydings shall be brought
Of any place, or office to be bought,
And your left lead, or unwedg'd timber yet
Shall passe by your consent to purchase it,
May your deformed Bulkes endure the edge
Of axes, feele the beetle and the wedge,
May all the ballads be call'd in and dye,
That sing the wars of Colebrand, and Sir Guy:
O yee that do Guild Hall and Holmby keepe
So carefully when both the Founders sleepe,
You are good Gyants, and partake no shame,
With these two worthlesse trunks of Notingham:
Looke to your sev'rall charges, we must go,
Though griev'd at heart to leave a Castle so.
The Bull-head is the word, and we must eate,
No sorrow can descend so low as meate:
So to the Inne we came, where our best cheere,
Was that his Grace of Yorke had lodged there.
He was objected to us when we call,
Or dislike ought, my Lords Grace answers all;
He was contented with this bed, this dyet,
This keeps our discontented stomacks quiet.
The Inne keeper was old, fourescore almost,
Indeed an Embleme, rather then an Host;
In whom wee read how God and Time decree,
To honour thrifty Hostlers, such as he:
For, in the stable first he did begin,
Now see he is sole Lord of the whole Inne.
7
By thrift a bottle may become a Mow,
Marke him all yee that have the golden Itch,
All whom God hath condemned to be rich;
Farewell glad father of thy daughter Mayresse,
Thou Hostler Phænix, thy example rare is.
Wee are for Newarke after this sad talke,
And thither 'tis no journey but a walke,
Nature is wanton there, and the high way
Seem'd to bee private though it open lay;
As if some swelling Lawyer for his health,
Or frantique Usurer to tame his wealth,
Had chosen out two miles by Trent, to try
Two great effects of Art and Industry:
The ground wee tread is meadow fertile land,
New trimm'd, and leveld by the Mowers hand,
Above it grew a rocke, rude, steepe and high,
Which claimes a kind of Rev'rence from the Eye:
Betwixt them both there slides a lively streame,
Not loud, but swift: Meander was a Theame
Crooked and rough, but had those Poets seene
Streight-even Trent, it had immortall beene;
This side the open plaine admits the Sunne,
To halfe the River which did open runne;
The other halfe ranne clouds, where the curld wood
With his exalted head threatned the flood:
Here I could wish us never passing by,
And never past; Now Newarke is too nigh;
And as a Christmasse seemes a day but short,
Deluding times with revels, and good sport,
So did this beautious mixture us beguile,
And the whole twelve being travail'd seem'd one mile.
And thither 'tis no journey but a walke,
Nature is wanton there, and the high way
Seem'd to bee private though it open lay;
As if some swelling Lawyer for his health,
Or frantique Usurer to tame his wealth,
Had chosen out two miles by Trent, to try
Two great effects of Art and Industry:
The ground wee tread is meadow fertile land,
New trimm'd, and leveld by the Mowers hand,
Above it grew a rocke, rude, steepe and high,
Which claimes a kind of Rev'rence from the Eye:
Betwixt them both there slides a lively streame,
Not loud, but swift: Meander was a Theame
Crooked and rough, but had those Poets seene
Streight-even Trent, it had immortall beene;
This side the open plaine admits the Sunne,
To halfe the River which did open runne;
The other halfe ranne clouds, where the curld wood
With his exalted head threatned the flood:
Here I could wish us never passing by,
And never past; Now Newarke is too nigh;
And as a Christmasse seemes a day but short,
Deluding times with revels, and good sport,
So did this beautious mixture us beguile,
And the whole twelve being travail'd seem'd one mile.
8
Now as the way was sweete, so was the End,
Our Passage easie, and our prize a Friend;
Whom there we did enjoy, and for whose sake
As for a kind of purer coyne men make
Us lib'rall welcome, with such Harmony
As the whole Towne had beene his Family
Mine host of the next Inne did not repine
That we perfer'd the Hart and pass'd his signe
And where we lay the host and hostesse faine
Would shew our loves were aym'd at, not their gaine.
The very beggers were so ingenuous,
They rather pray for him, then beg of us;
And so the Doctors friends be pleas'd to stay,
The Puritans will let the Organs play.
Would they pull downe the Gallery builded new,
With the Churchwardens seate and Burleigh pew?
Newarke for light, and beauty might compare
With any Church, but what Cathedrals are:
To this belongs a Vicar, who succeeded
The friend I mention'd, such a one there needed,
A man whose life and tongue is eloquent,
Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent.
And urge the Canon home when they conspire
Against the Crosse and Bells with sword and fire:
There stood a Castle too, they shew us here
The place where the King slept, the window where
He talk'd with such a Lord, how long he stayd
In his discourse, and all but what he sayd.
From whence without a perspective we see
Bever and Lincolne, where we faine would bee,
But that our purse, and horses too were bound
Within the compasse of a narrower ground.
Our purpose is all homeward, and 'twas time
At parting to have wit, as well as wine.
Full three a clocke and twenty miles to ride,
Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure Guide:
We wanted both, and Lowborough may glory,
Error hath made it famous in our story.
'Twas night, and the swift horses of the Sunne
Two houres before our Jades their race had runne;
Nor pilot, Moone, nor any such kinde starre,
As guided those Wise men that came from farre,
To holy Bethlem; such lights had they binne
They would have soone conveyd us to an Inne:
But all were wandring starres, and we as they
Were taught no course but to ride on and stray:
When Oh the fate of darknesse, who hath try'd it,
Here our whole Fleete it scatter'd, and divided!
And now we labour more to meete, then erst
We did to lodge, the last cryes downe the first;
Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow
Can now no longer tracke us by the hollow;
They curse the foremost, we the hindmost, both
Accusing with like patience, haste, and sloth.
At last upon a little Towne we fall,
Where some for drinke, some for a candle call:
Unhappy we! such straglers as we are,
Admire a Candle oftner then a Starre;
We care not for those glorious lights aloofe,
Give us a tallow Candle, a dry roofe.
And now we have a guide, weele cease to chase,
Now we have time to pray the rest be safe,
Our guide before cries Come, and we the whiles
Ride blindfold, and take bridges to be styles,
Till at the last we overcome the darke,
And spight of night and error hit the marke:
Some halfe houre after enters the whole tayle,
As if they were committed to the Jayle;
The Constable that tooke 'em thus divided,
Made 'em seeme apprehended and not guided,
Where when wee had our fortunes both detested,
Compassion made us friends, and so we rested;
Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay,
Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay;
All Travellers these heavy judgements heare,
A handsome hostesse makes a reckoning deare:
Her smiles, her words, your purses must require 'em,
And every welcome from her adds an Item.
Glad to be gone from hence, at any rate,
For Bosworth wee are hors'd: behold the fate
Of mortall men, foule error is a mother,
And pregnant once doth soone beget another.
Wee who last night did learne to lose our way,
Are perfect since, and further out next day,
And in a Forest having travaild sore,
Like wandring Bevis else he sound the Boare,
Or as some Love-sicke Lady oft hath done,
Before she was rescued by the knight o'th' Sunne,
So are we lost, and meet no comfort then
But Carts and horses, wiser then the men:
Which is the way? They neither speake, nor point,
Their tongues and fingers, both are out of joynt,
Such monsters by Cole Herton banks there sit,
After their Resurrection from the pit.
Whiles in this Mill wee labour and turne round,
As in a Conjurers circle, William sound:
A meanes for our delivery, Turne your clokes
Quoth he, for Pucke is busie in these Oakes;
If ever ye at Bosworth will be found,
Then turne your Cloakes, for this is Fairie ground.
But e're this witchcraft was perform'd, wee meere
A very man, who had not cloven feere,
Though William still of little faith doth doubt,
'Tis Robin or some Spirit walkes about,
Strike him, quoth he, and it will turne to aire,
Crosse your selves thrice, and strike him: Strike that dare
Thought I, for sure this massie Forester,
In blowes will prove the better Conjurer;
But 'twas a gentle keeper, one that knew
Humanity and manners where they grew,
And rode along with us, till he could say,
Loe yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way.
And now when we had sweat, 'twixt Sunne and Sunne;
And eight miles long, to thirty broade had runne,
Wee learn'd the just proportion from hence,
Of the Diameter, and Circumference.
That night made yet amends, our meate, our sheetes,
Were farre above the promise of those streetes,
Those houses that were til'd with straw and mosse,
Promis'd but weake repaire for that dayes losse
Of patience, yet this outside lets us know,
The worthy'st things make not the greatest show.
The shot was easie, and what concernes us more,
The way was so, mine host did ride before,
Mine host was full of Ale, and History,
And on the morrow when he brought us nigh
Where the two Roses joyned, you would suppose,
Chaueer nere writ the Romant of the Rose,
Heare him: see yee yond' woods? there Richard lay
With his whole Army: looke the other way,
And loe where Richmond in a bed of grosse,
Encamp'd himselfe o're night with all his force.
Upon this Hill they met; why, he could tell
The Inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell;
Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
Hee had Authentique notice from the Play;
Which I might guesse by's mustrimg up the Ghosts,
And policies not incident to hosts:
But chiefly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistooke a Player for a King,
For when he would have said, King Richard dy'd,
And call'd a Horse, a Horse, he Burbage cry'd.
How e're his talke, his company pleas'd well,
His Mare went truer then his Chronicle;
And even for Conscience sake unspurr'd, unbeaten,
Brought us sixe miles and turn'd taile to New Eaton;
From thence to Coventrey, where we scarce dine,
Onely our stomachs warm'd with zeale and wine;
And thence as if wee were predestin'd forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, flye to Killingworth.
The keeper of the Castle was from home,
So that halfe mile was lost; yet when wee come
An host receives us there, wee ne're deny him,
My Lord of Lesters man, the Parson by him;
Who had no other proofe to testifie,
He serv'd the Lord, but age and bawdery.
Away for shame, why should three miles divide
Warwicke, and us? they that have horses ride,
A short mile from the Towne, an humble shrine,
At foote of a high rocke consists in signe
Of Guy and his devotions, who there stands,
Ugly and huge, more then a man on's hands,
His Helmet steele, his Gorget Mayle, his Shield
Brasse, made the Chappell fearfull as a field.
And let this answer all the Popes complaints:
Wee set up Gyants, though wee pull downe Saints.
Beyond this in the rode way as wee went,
A pillar stands where this Colossus leant,
Where he would love, and sigh, and for hearts ease
Oft times write verses, some say such as these.
Our Passage easie, and our prize a Friend;
Whom there we did enjoy, and for whose sake
As for a kind of purer coyne men make
Us lib'rall welcome, with such Harmony
As the whole Towne had beene his Family
Mine host of the next Inne did not repine
That we perfer'd the Hart and pass'd his signe
And where we lay the host and hostesse faine
Would shew our loves were aym'd at, not their gaine.
The very beggers were so ingenuous,
They rather pray for him, then beg of us;
And so the Doctors friends be pleas'd to stay,
The Puritans will let the Organs play.
Would they pull downe the Gallery builded new,
With the Churchwardens seate and Burleigh pew?
Newarke for light, and beauty might compare
With any Church, but what Cathedrals are:
To this belongs a Vicar, who succeeded
The friend I mention'd, such a one there needed,
A man whose life and tongue is eloquent,
Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent.
And urge the Canon home when they conspire
Against the Crosse and Bells with sword and fire:
There stood a Castle too, they shew us here
The place where the King slept, the window where
He talk'd with such a Lord, how long he stayd
In his discourse, and all but what he sayd.
From whence without a perspective we see
Bever and Lincolne, where we faine would bee,
But that our purse, and horses too were bound
Within the compasse of a narrower ground.
9
At parting to have wit, as well as wine.
Full three a clocke and twenty miles to ride,
Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure Guide:
We wanted both, and Lowborough may glory,
Error hath made it famous in our story.
'Twas night, and the swift horses of the Sunne
Two houres before our Jades their race had runne;
Nor pilot, Moone, nor any such kinde starre,
As guided those Wise men that came from farre,
To holy Bethlem; such lights had they binne
They would have soone conveyd us to an Inne:
But all were wandring starres, and we as they
Were taught no course but to ride on and stray:
When Oh the fate of darknesse, who hath try'd it,
Here our whole Fleete it scatter'd, and divided!
And now we labour more to meete, then erst
We did to lodge, the last cryes downe the first;
Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow
Can now no longer tracke us by the hollow;
They curse the foremost, we the hindmost, both
Accusing with like patience, haste, and sloth.
At last upon a little Towne we fall,
Where some for drinke, some for a candle call:
Unhappy we! such straglers as we are,
Admire a Candle oftner then a Starre;
We care not for those glorious lights aloofe,
Give us a tallow Candle, a dry roofe.
And now we have a guide, weele cease to chase,
Now we have time to pray the rest be safe,
Our guide before cries Come, and we the whiles
Ride blindfold, and take bridges to be styles,
10
And spight of night and error hit the marke:
Some halfe houre after enters the whole tayle,
As if they were committed to the Jayle;
The Constable that tooke 'em thus divided,
Made 'em seeme apprehended and not guided,
Where when wee had our fortunes both detested,
Compassion made us friends, and so we rested;
Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay,
Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay;
All Travellers these heavy judgements heare,
A handsome hostesse makes a reckoning deare:
Her smiles, her words, your purses must require 'em,
And every welcome from her adds an Item.
Glad to be gone from hence, at any rate,
For Bosworth wee are hors'd: behold the fate
Of mortall men, foule error is a mother,
And pregnant once doth soone beget another.
Wee who last night did learne to lose our way,
Are perfect since, and further out next day,
And in a Forest having travaild sore,
Like wandring Bevis else he sound the Boare,
Or as some Love-sicke Lady oft hath done,
Before she was rescued by the knight o'th' Sunne,
So are we lost, and meet no comfort then
But Carts and horses, wiser then the men:
Which is the way? They neither speake, nor point,
Their tongues and fingers, both are out of joynt,
Such monsters by Cole Herton banks there sit,
After their Resurrection from the pit.
Whiles in this Mill wee labour and turne round,
As in a Conjurers circle, William sound:
11
Quoth he, for Pucke is busie in these Oakes;
If ever ye at Bosworth will be found,
Then turne your Cloakes, for this is Fairie ground.
But e're this witchcraft was perform'd, wee meere
A very man, who had not cloven feere,
Though William still of little faith doth doubt,
'Tis Robin or some Spirit walkes about,
Strike him, quoth he, and it will turne to aire,
Crosse your selves thrice, and strike him: Strike that dare
Thought I, for sure this massie Forester,
In blowes will prove the better Conjurer;
But 'twas a gentle keeper, one that knew
Humanity and manners where they grew,
And rode along with us, till he could say,
Loe yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way.
And now when we had sweat, 'twixt Sunne and Sunne;
And eight miles long, to thirty broade had runne,
Wee learn'd the just proportion from hence,
Of the Diameter, and Circumference.
That night made yet amends, our meate, our sheetes,
Were farre above the promise of those streetes,
Those houses that were til'd with straw and mosse,
Promis'd but weake repaire for that dayes losse
Of patience, yet this outside lets us know,
The worthy'st things make not the greatest show.
The shot was easie, and what concernes us more,
The way was so, mine host did ride before,
Mine host was full of Ale, and History,
And on the morrow when he brought us nigh
Where the two Roses joyned, you would suppose,
Chaueer nere writ the Romant of the Rose,
12
With his whole Army: looke the other way,
And loe where Richmond in a bed of grosse,
Encamp'd himselfe o're night with all his force.
Upon this Hill they met; why, he could tell
The Inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell;
Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
Hee had Authentique notice from the Play;
Which I might guesse by's mustrimg up the Ghosts,
And policies not incident to hosts:
But chiefly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistooke a Player for a King,
For when he would have said, King Richard dy'd,
And call'd a Horse, a Horse, he Burbage cry'd.
How e're his talke, his company pleas'd well,
His Mare went truer then his Chronicle;
And even for Conscience sake unspurr'd, unbeaten,
Brought us sixe miles and turn'd taile to New Eaton;
From thence to Coventrey, where we scarce dine,
Onely our stomachs warm'd with zeale and wine;
And thence as if wee were predestin'd forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, flye to Killingworth.
The keeper of the Castle was from home,
So that halfe mile was lost; yet when wee come
An host receives us there, wee ne're deny him,
My Lord of Lesters man, the Parson by him;
Who had no other proofe to testifie,
He serv'd the Lord, but age and bawdery.
Away for shame, why should three miles divide
Warwicke, and us? they that have horses ride,
A short mile from the Towne, an humble shrine,
At foote of a high rocke consists in signe
13
Ugly and huge, more then a man on's hands,
His Helmet steele, his Gorget Mayle, his Shield
Brasse, made the Chappell fearfull as a field.
And let this answer all the Popes complaints:
Wee set up Gyants, though wee pull downe Saints.
Beyond this in the rode way as wee went,
A pillar stands where this Colossus leant,
Where he would love, and sigh, and for hearts ease
Oft times write verses, some say such as these.
Here will I languish in this silly bower,
While my sweete heart triumphs in yonder Tower.
No other hindrance now, but wee may passe,
Cleare to our Inne; Oh there an hostesse was,
To whom the Castle and the dunne Cowe are
Sights after dinner, shee is morning ware,
Her whole behaviour borrowed was and mixt,
Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and Jigge, her courtsy was an honour,
Her gate as if her neighbours had out-gone her;
Shee was barr'd up in Whale bones that did leese
None of the whales length, for they reach'd her knees;
Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle,
As her Wast stands, just like the new found fiddle,
The favourite Theorbo, truth to tell yee,
Whose neck and throate are deeper then the belly:
Have you seene Monkeys chain'd about the loynes,
Or pottle pots, with rings? just so shee joynes
Her selfe together; a dressing shee doth love,
In a small print below, and text above:
What though her name be King, yet 'tis no treason,
Nor breach of Statute to enquire the reason
Of her branch'd russe, a Cubit every poake
I seeme to wende her, but she strucke the stroake
At our departure, and our worships there
Payd for our titles deare, as any where.
Though Beadles and Professors both have done,
Yet every Inne claimes augmentation:
Please you walke out and see the Castle, come,
The owner saith, it is a Schollers home,
A place of strength, and health, in the same Fort
You would conceive a Castle and a Court,
The Orchards, Gardens, Rivers and the Ayre
May with the Trenches, Rampires, Wals compare,
It seemes no art, no force can intercept it,
As if a Lover built, a Souldier kept it;
Vp to the Tower, though it bee steepe and high,
Wee doe not clime, but walk; and though the eye
Seeme to be weary, yet our feet are still
In the same posture, cousn'd up the Hill,
And thus the workemans art deceives our sence,
Making those rounds of pleasure and defence.
As wee descend the Lord of all this frame,
The Honourable Chancellour to us came,
Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,
But now wee feele a sweeter gale beneath,
The phrase and welcome of this Knight did make
The place more elegant: each word he spake
Was wine and musicke, which he did expose
To us if all our art could censure those:
With him there was a Prelate, by his place
Arch deacon to the Bishop, by his face
A greater man, for that did counterfeit
Lord Abbot of some Covent standing yet,
A corpulent relique, marry and'tis sinne,
Some Puritane gets not that face call'd in;
Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,
That looke for parity in ev'ry thing;
For us let him enjoy all that God sends,
Plenty of flesh, of livings and of friends,
No other hindrance now, but wee may passe,
Cleare to our Inne; Oh there an hostesse was,
To whom the Castle and the dunne Cowe are
Sights after dinner, shee is morning ware,
Her whole behaviour borrowed was and mixt,
Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and Jigge, her courtsy was an honour,
Her gate as if her neighbours had out-gone her;
Shee was barr'd up in Whale bones that did leese
None of the whales length, for they reach'd her knees;
Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle,
As her Wast stands, just like the new found fiddle,
The favourite Theorbo, truth to tell yee,
Whose neck and throate are deeper then the belly:
Have you seene Monkeys chain'd about the loynes,
Or pottle pots, with rings? just so shee joynes
Her selfe together; a dressing shee doth love,
In a small print below, and text above:
What though her name be King, yet 'tis no treason,
Nor breach of Statute to enquire the reason
14
I seeme to wende her, but she strucke the stroake
At our departure, and our worships there
Payd for our titles deare, as any where.
Though Beadles and Professors both have done,
Yet every Inne claimes augmentation:
Please you walke out and see the Castle, come,
The owner saith, it is a Schollers home,
A place of strength, and health, in the same Fort
You would conceive a Castle and a Court,
The Orchards, Gardens, Rivers and the Ayre
May with the Trenches, Rampires, Wals compare,
It seemes no art, no force can intercept it,
As if a Lover built, a Souldier kept it;
Vp to the Tower, though it bee steepe and high,
Wee doe not clime, but walk; and though the eye
Seeme to be weary, yet our feet are still
In the same posture, cousn'd up the Hill,
And thus the workemans art deceives our sence,
Making those rounds of pleasure and defence.
As wee descend the Lord of all this frame,
The Honourable Chancellour to us came,
Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,
But now wee feele a sweeter gale beneath,
The phrase and welcome of this Knight did make
The place more elegant: each word he spake
Was wine and musicke, which he did expose
To us if all our art could censure those:
With him there was a Prelate, by his place
Arch deacon to the Bishop, by his face
A greater man, for that did counterfeit
Lord Abbot of some Covent standing yet,
15
Some Puritane gets not that face call'd in;
Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,
That looke for parity in ev'ry thing;
For us let him enjoy all that God sends,
Plenty of flesh, of livings and of friends,
Imagine us here ambling downe the streete,
Circling in Flower, and making both ends meete,
Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complaine
Like harvest folkes of weather and of raine,
And on the feast of Bartholmew we try,
What Revels that Saint keepes at Banbury;
Circling in Flower, and making both ends meete,
Where wee fare well foure dayes, and did complaine
Like harvest folkes of weather and of raine,
And on the feast of Bartholmew we try,
What Revels that Saint keepes at Banbury;
I'th' name of God Amen! first to beginne,
The Altar was converted to an Inne,
Wee lodged in the Chappell by the signe,
But in a banck'rupt Taverne by the wine,
Besides our horses usage makes us thinke,
'Twas still a Church, for they in Coffins drinke,
As if 'twere congruous that the ancient'st lye
Close by those Altars in whose faith they dye;
Now you believe the Church hath great varietie
Of Monuments when Innes have such societie,
But nothing lesse, ther's no inscription there,
But the Church-wardens of the last yeare,
In stead of Saints in windowes, and in wals,
Here buckets hang, and there a Cobweb fals:
Would you not thinke they love antiquity,
Who rush their quire for perpetuity,
Whilst all the other pavements and the floore
Are supplicant to the surveyors power
Of the high wayes, that he would gravell'd keepe
Them, or in winter sure they will bee deepe;
If not for Gods sake, for Master Wheatley's sake,
Levell the Walkes; suppose these pit-fals make
Him spraine a Lecture, or misplace a joynt
In his long prayer, or in his seventeenth point,
Thinke you the Dawes and States can set him right?
Surely this sinne upon your heads will light;
And say, Beloved, what unchristian charme
Is this, you have not left a leg or arme
Of an Apostle? Thinke you if those were whole,
They would arise at last t'assume a soule?
If not, 'tis plaine all the Idolatry
Lyes in your folly, not the imag'ry.
'Tis well, the pinnacles are falne in twaine,
For now the devill should he tempt againe,
Hath no advantage of a place so high:
Fooles! he can dash you from your Gallery,
Where all your medley meetes, and doe compare
Not what you learne, but who was longest there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Like a grand Sallad, Tinkers, what a Towne is't?
The Crosses also like old stumps of Trees,
Or stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees,
Carry no heads above Ground: those which tell,
That Christ hath nere descended into Hell,
But to the Grave, his picture buryed have
In a farre deeper dungeon then a Grave,
That is descended to endure what paines
The Devill can thinke, or such disciples braines.
The Altar was converted to an Inne,
Wee lodged in the Chappell by the signe,
But in a banck'rupt Taverne by the wine,
Besides our horses usage makes us thinke,
'Twas still a Church, for they in Coffins drinke,
As if 'twere congruous that the ancient'st lye
Close by those Altars in whose faith they dye;
Now you believe the Church hath great varietie
Of Monuments when Innes have such societie,
But nothing lesse, ther's no inscription there,
But the Church-wardens of the last yeare,
In stead of Saints in windowes, and in wals,
Here buckets hang, and there a Cobweb fals:
Would you not thinke they love antiquity,
Who rush their quire for perpetuity,
Whilst all the other pavements and the floore
Are supplicant to the surveyors power
Of the high wayes, that he would gravell'd keepe
Them, or in winter sure they will bee deepe;
16
Levell the Walkes; suppose these pit-fals make
Him spraine a Lecture, or misplace a joynt
In his long prayer, or in his seventeenth point,
Thinke you the Dawes and States can set him right?
Surely this sinne upon your heads will light;
And say, Beloved, what unchristian charme
Is this, you have not left a leg or arme
Of an Apostle? Thinke you if those were whole,
They would arise at last t'assume a soule?
If not, 'tis plaine all the Idolatry
Lyes in your folly, not the imag'ry.
'Tis well, the pinnacles are falne in twaine,
For now the devill should he tempt againe,
Hath no advantage of a place so high:
Fooles! he can dash you from your Gallery,
Where all your medley meetes, and doe compare
Not what you learne, but who was longest there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Like a grand Sallad, Tinkers, what a Towne is't?
The Crosses also like old stumps of Trees,
Or stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees,
Carry no heads above Ground: those which tell,
That Christ hath nere descended into Hell,
But to the Grave, his picture buryed have
In a farre deeper dungeon then a Grave,
That is descended to endure what paines
The Devill can thinke, or such disciples braines.
No more my griefe, in such prophane abuses
Good whips make better verses then the Muses.
Away, and looke not backe, away, while yet
The Church is standing, while the benefit.
Of seeing it remaines so long you shall
Have that rackt downe and call'd Apocryphall,
And in some Barne heare cited many an Author,
Kate Stubs, Anne Ascue, or the Ladies daughter,
Which shall be urg'd for Fathers: stop disdaine,
When Oxford once appeare Satan refraine.
Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out-gone us,
Is not Saint Gileses this, and that Saint Johns?
We are return'd, but just with so much ore
As Rauleigh from his voyage, and no more.
Good whips make better verses then the Muses.
Away, and looke not backe, away, while yet
The Church is standing, while the benefit.
17
Have that rackt downe and call'd Apocryphall,
And in some Barne heare cited many an Author,
Kate Stubs, Anne Ascue, or the Ladies daughter,
Which shall be urg'd for Fathers: stop disdaine,
When Oxford once appeare Satan refraine.
Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out-gone us,
Is not Saint Gileses this, and that Saint Johns?
We are return'd, but just with so much ore
As Rauleigh from his voyage, and no more.
R. C.
When too much zeale doth fire devotion,Love is not love, but superstition:
Even so in civill duties when we come
Too oft, we are not kind, but troublesome,
Yet as the first is not Idolatry,
So is the last, but grieved industry,
And such was mine whose strife to honour you
By overplus, hath robd you of your due.
On Bishop Ravis.
WNen I passe Pauls, and travaile in the walke,Where all our Brittish sinners sweare and talke,
18
And youth whose cousenage is as old as theirs,
And there behold the body of my Lord,
Trod under foot by vice which he abhord.
It wounded me the Landlord of all times
Should let long lives and leases to their crimes;
But to his saving honours scarce afford
But so much Sunne as to the Prophets Gourd,
Yet since swift flights and envy hath best end,
Like breath of Angels with a blessing send,
And vanisheth withall, while fouler deeds
Expect a tedious harvest of bad seeds;
I blame not fame and nature if they gave
Where they could adde no more, the last a grave;
And justly doe thy grieved friends forbeare
Bubble and Alablaster boyes to reare
Ore thy religious dust, but bid men know
Thy life, which such illusions cannot show;
For thou hast dyed amongst those happy ones,
Who trust not in their superstitions,
Their hired Epitaphs, and perjur'd stone,
Which oft belies the soule when she is gone,
But durst commit thy body as it lies,
To tongues of living men, not unborne eyes;
What profits thee a sheet of lead, what good?
If on thy course a marble Quarry stood?
Let those that feare their rising purchase vaults,
And send their statues to excuse their faults,
As if like birds that picke at painted grapes,
Their Judge knew not their persons from their shapes,
Whilst thou assured by thy easie dust
Shalt spring at first, they would not, yet they must:
19
Above the Host and altar reared is;
For though thy body fill a narrow roome,
Thou shalt not change deeds with him for his Tombe.
R. Corbet.
On Doctor Corbets Father.
Vincent Corbet farther knownBy Pointers name then by his owne,
Here lies engaged till the day
Of raysing bones and quickning clay:
No wonder reader that he hath
Two Sir-names in one Epitaph,
For this one doth comprehend
All that both families could lend;
And if to know more art then any
Could multiply one into many,
Here a Colony lies then
Both of qualities and men.
Yeares he liv'd were neere fourescore,
But count his vertues, he liv'd more;
And number him by doing good,
He liv'd the age before the stood.
Should we undertake his story,
Truth would seeme fain'd, and fainednesse glory:
Besides the Tablet were too small,
Adding the pillars and the wall;
20
Writ in many a fertill ground,
Where the Printer thee affords
Earth for Paper, Trees for Words
He was natures Factor here,
And leiger [illeg.] for every shiere;
To supply the ingenious wants
Of some Spring fruits, and forraine plants.
Simple he was, and withall,
His purse not base, nor prodigall,
Poorer in substance, then in friends,
Future and publique were his ends
His conscience like his diet, such
As neither tooke nor left too much,
So the made lawes needlesse growne
To him, he needed but his owne:
Did he his neighbour bid like those
That feast them onely to enclose,
Or with their Roastmeat rack their rents,
And cousen them with their fed consents?
No the free meeting of his board
Did but one liberall sense afford;
No Close or Aker understood,
But onely love and neighbourhood
His Almes were such as Paul defines,
Nor causes to be said, but signes;
Which Almes by faith, hope, love, laid downe,
Layd up what now he weares a Crowne.
Besides his fame, his goods, his life,
He left a griev'd sonne and wife;
Strange sorrow scarce to be beleev'd,
When as a sonne and heire is griev'd.
R. Corbet.
21
On the death of Master Rice Manciple of Christ-Church.
Who can doubt (Rice) to what eternall placeThy soule is fled, that did but know thy face?
Whose body was so light it might have gone
To heaven without a resurrection;
Indeed thou wert all Type, thy limbes were signes,
Thy Arteries but Mathematick lines;
As if two soules had made the compound good,
Which both should live by faith, and none by blood.
R. C.
To his sonne Vincent Corbet.
What I shall leave thee none can tell,But all shall say I wish thee well;
I wish thee (Vin) before all wealth,
Both bodily and ghostly health;
Nor too much wealth, nor wit come to thee,
So much of either may undoe thee.
I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct, and know;
Not such as Gentlemen require
To prate at Table, or at Fire.
22
Thy fathers fortunes, and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at Court
Not to build on, but support,
To keepe thee, not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy wayes,
Nor Lazy nor contentious dayes.
And when thy soule and body part,
As innocent as now thou art.
R. C.
An Elegy on the late Lord William Howard, Baron of Effingham, dead the 10 of December, 1615.
I did not know thee, Lord, not doe I strive
To winne accesse, or grace, with Lords alive
The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can
Move me, not favour; nor a greater man.
To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent,
From whom no Penance warnes, nor portion spent,
To these I dedicate as much of me
As I can spare from my owne husbandry:
And till Ghosts walke, as they were wont to doe,
I trade for some, and doe these errants too.
But first I doe enquire, and am assur'd,
What tryals in their Journeys they endur'd,
What certainties of Honour and of worth,
Their most uncertaine Life-times have brought forth;
And who so did least hurt of this small store,
He is my patron, dy'd he rich or poore.
First I will know of Fame (after his peace,
When Flattery and Envy both doe cease)
Who rul'd his actions: Reason, or my Lord?
Did the whole man relie upon a word,
A badge of Title, or above all chance
Seem'd he as Ancient as his Cognisance?
What did he? Acts of mercy and refraine
Oppression in himselfe, and in his Traine?
Was his essentiall table full as free
As boasts and invitations use to be?
Where if his Russet-friend did chance to dine,
Whether his Satten-man would fill him wine?
Did he thinke perjury as lov'd a sinne.
Himselfe forsworne, as if his slave had beene?
Did he seeke regular pleasures? was he knowne
Just Husband of one Wife, and she his owne?
Did he give freely without pause, or doubt,
And read petitions, ere they were worne out?
Or should his well-deserving Client aske,
Would he bestow a Tilring, or a Maske
To keepe need vertuous? And that done not feare
What Lady damn'd him for his absence there?
Did he attend the Court for no mans fall?
Wore he the ruine of no Hospitall?
And when he did his rich apparell don,
Put he no Widow, nor an Orphan on?
Did he love simple vertue for the thing?
The King for no respect but for the King?
But above all, did his Religion wait
Upon Gods Throne, or on the Chaire of state?
He that is guiltie of no Quære here,
Out-lasts his Epitaph, out-lives his Heire.
But there is none such, none so little bad,
Who but this negative goodnesse ever had?
Of such a Lord we may expect the birth,
He's rather in the wombe than on the earth.
And 'twere a Crime in such a publike fate,
For one to live well and degenerate:
And therefore I am angry, when a name
Comes to upbraid the World like Effingham.
Nor was it modest in thee to depart
To thy eternall home, where now thou art,
Ere thy reproach was ready: or to dye,
Ere custome had prepar'd thy calumny.
Eight dayes have past since thou hast paid thy debt
To sinne, and not a libell stirring yet,
Courtiers that scoffe by Patent, silent sit,
And have no use of Slander or of wit;
But (which is monstrous) though against the tide,
The Water-men have neither rayld nor lide.
Of good and bad there's no distinction knowne,
For in thy praise the good and bad are one.
It seemes we all are covetous of Fame,
And hearing what a purchase of good name
Thou lately mad'st, are carefull to increase
Our title by the holding of some lease
From thee our Land-lord, and for that th'whole crue
Speake now like Tenants ready to renew:
It were too sad to tell thy pedegree,
Death hath disordered all, misplacing thee,
Whilst now thy Herauld in his line of heires
Blots out thy name, and fils the space with teares.
And thus hath conqu'ring death, or nature rather,
Made thee prepostrous ancient to thy Father,
Who grieves th'art so, and like a glorious light
Shines ore thy Hearse.
To winne accesse, or grace, with Lords alive
The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can
Move me, not favour; nor a greater man.
To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent,
From whom no Penance warnes, nor portion spent,
To these I dedicate as much of me
As I can spare from my owne husbandry:
And till Ghosts walke, as they were wont to doe,
I trade for some, and doe these errants too.
But first I doe enquire, and am assur'd,
What tryals in their Journeys they endur'd,
23
Their most uncertaine Life-times have brought forth;
And who so did least hurt of this small store,
He is my patron, dy'd he rich or poore.
First I will know of Fame (after his peace,
When Flattery and Envy both doe cease)
Who rul'd his actions: Reason, or my Lord?
Did the whole man relie upon a word,
A badge of Title, or above all chance
Seem'd he as Ancient as his Cognisance?
What did he? Acts of mercy and refraine
Oppression in himselfe, and in his Traine?
Was his essentiall table full as free
As boasts and invitations use to be?
Where if his Russet-friend did chance to dine,
Whether his Satten-man would fill him wine?
Did he thinke perjury as lov'd a sinne.
Himselfe forsworne, as if his slave had beene?
Did he seeke regular pleasures? was he knowne
Just Husband of one Wife, and she his owne?
Did he give freely without pause, or doubt,
And read petitions, ere they were worne out?
Or should his well-deserving Client aske,
Would he bestow a Tilring, or a Maske
To keepe need vertuous? And that done not feare
What Lady damn'd him for his absence there?
Did he attend the Court for no mans fall?
Wore he the ruine of no Hospitall?
And when he did his rich apparell don,
Put he no Widow, nor an Orphan on?
Did he love simple vertue for the thing?
The King for no respect but for the King?
24
Upon Gods Throne, or on the Chaire of state?
He that is guiltie of no Quære here,
Out-lasts his Epitaph, out-lives his Heire.
But there is none such, none so little bad,
Who but this negative goodnesse ever had?
Of such a Lord we may expect the birth,
He's rather in the wombe than on the earth.
And 'twere a Crime in such a publike fate,
For one to live well and degenerate:
And therefore I am angry, when a name
Comes to upbraid the World like Effingham.
Nor was it modest in thee to depart
To thy eternall home, where now thou art,
Ere thy reproach was ready: or to dye,
Ere custome had prepar'd thy calumny.
Eight dayes have past since thou hast paid thy debt
To sinne, and not a libell stirring yet,
Courtiers that scoffe by Patent, silent sit,
And have no use of Slander or of wit;
But (which is monstrous) though against the tide,
The Water-men have neither rayld nor lide.
Of good and bad there's no distinction knowne,
For in thy praise the good and bad are one.
It seemes we all are covetous of Fame,
And hearing what a purchase of good name
Thou lately mad'st, are carefull to increase
Our title by the holding of some lease
From thee our Land-lord, and for that th'whole crue
Speake now like Tenants ready to renew:
It were too sad to tell thy pedegree,
Death hath disordered all, misplacing thee,
25
Blots out thy name, and fils the space with teares.
And thus hath conqu'ring death, or nature rather,
Made thee prepostrous ancient to thy Father,
Who grieves th'art so, and like a glorious light
Shines ore thy Hearse.
He therefore that would write
And blaze thee throughly, may at once say all,
Here lies the Anchor of our Admirall.
Let others write for glory or reward,
Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.
And blaze thee throughly, may at once say all,
Here lies the Anchor of our Admirall.
Let others write for glory or reward,
Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.
R. Corbet.
An Epitaph on Doctor Donne, Deane of Pauls.
He that would write an Epitaph for theeAnd doe it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so.
He must have wit to spare, and to hurle downe
Enough to keepe the Gallants of the Towne,
He must have learning plenty both the Laws,
Civill and Common, to judge any cause;
Divinitie great store, above the rest,
Not of the last Edition, but the best.
He must have language travaile, all the Arts,
Judgement to use, or else hee wants thy parts;
26
Such as Mecænus and Augustus too.
He must have such a sicknesse, such a death,
Or else his vaine descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee
He must be dead first, let 't alone for me.
R. Corbet.
Upon Mistris Mallet.
Have I renounc'd my faith? or basely soldSalvation, or my loyalty for gold?
Have I some for in practise underlooke
By poyson, shot, sharpe knife, or sharper looke
To kill my King? have I betray'd the State
To fire or fury, or some newer fate?
Which learn'd murtherers, those grand destinies,
The Jesuits have nurst; if of all these
I guilty am, proceed, I am content
That Mallet take me for my punishment
For never sinne was of so high a rare
But one nights hell with thee could expiate
Although the law with Garnet and the rest
Deale farre more mildly, hanging's but a jest
To this immortall torture; had she beene
In Martyrs torrid dayes ingendred, when
Cruelty was witty, and invention free
Did live by blood and thrive by cruelty,
27
Then sire or famine, racke or halters are.
Whether her wit, forme, talke, smile, tire I name,
Each is a stock of tyranny and shame.
But for her breath, spectators, come not nigh,
That layes about, God blesse the company
The man in a Beares skin baited to death
Would abuse the dogs much rather then her {breath},
One kisse of hers, and eighteene words alone
Puts downe the Spanish inquisition.
Thrice happy we (quoth I) thinking thereon,
That see no dayes of persecution.
For were it free to kill, this grisly elfe
Would Martyrs make in compasse of her selfe,
And were she not prevented by our prayer
By this time she corrupted had the ayre.
And am I innocent? and is it true
That thing which Poet Pliny never knew?
Nor Affrick, Nile, not ever Hackluits eyes
Descri'd in all his East, West voiages?
That thing which Poets were afraid to faine
For feare her shadow should infect their braine,
This spouse of Antichrist, and hers alone
Shee's drest so like the whore of Babylon,
Should dote on me? as if there should contrive
The devill and shee to damne a man alive.
Why doth not Welcome rather purchase her,
And beare about this rare familiar?
Six market dayes, a Wake, and a Faire too't
Would beare his charges, and the ale to boore.
No Tigerlike, she feeds upon a man,
Worse then a Tygresse or a Leopard can,
28
At once to bid the Devill and her farewell.
R. Corbet.
On great Tom of Christ-Church.
Be dumbe ye infant Chimes, thumpe not your mettle,That nee'r out-ting a Tinker and his Kettle,
Cease all your petty Laronis, for to day
Is young Toms resurrection from the clay;
And know when Tom rings out his knells,
The best of you will be but dinner bells
Old Tom's growne young againe, the fiery cave
Is now his Cradle that was erst his grave;
He grew up quickly from his mother earth,
For all you see was but an houres birth,
Looke on him well, my life I dare ingage
You nee'r saw prettier Baby of his age.
Some take his measure by the rule, some by
The Jacobs Staffe take his profundirie,
And some his altitude but some doe sweare
Young Tom's not like the old, but Tom nee'r feare
The critick Geometricians line,
If thou as loud as e're thou did ring'st nine;
Tom did no sooner peepe from under ground,
But straight Saint Maries Tenor lost his sound;
O how this May poles heart did swell
With full maine fides of joy, when that crackt bell
29
Rung like a quart pot to the Congregation;
Tom went his progresse lately and lookt o're
What he nee'r saw in many yeares before,
But when he saw the old foundation,
With like hope of preparation,
He burst with griefe, and lest he should not have
Due pompe, he's his owne Bell man to the grave;
And that there might of him be still some mention,
He carryed to his grave a new invention,
They drew his Brownebread face on pretty gins,
And make him stalk upon two Rowling-pins,
But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by heaven,
He nee'r set such a loafe into the Oven:
And Tom did Sanders vex his Cyclops maker
As much as he did Sander Hill the Baker,
Therefore loud thumping Tom be this thy pride,
When thou this motto shalt have on thy side.
Great world! one Alexander conquer'd thee,
And two as mighty men scarce conquer'd me.
Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turne,
Though hang'd, drawne, quarter'd, till they did thee burne;
Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry,
Since thou was martyr'd for the Churches glory,
But for thy meritorious suffering
Thou shortly shalt to heaven in a string;
And though we griev'd to see thee thumpt and bang'd,
Wee'l all be glad great Tom to see thee hang'd.
30
On John Dawson Butler of Christ Church, Doctor Corbet.
Dawson the Butler's dead, although I thinkePoets were nee'r infus'd with single drinke,
Ile spend a farthing Muse, a watry verse
Will serve the turne to cast upon his hearse.
If any cannot weepe among us here,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a teare.
Weepe O ye barrells, let your drippings fall
In trickling streames, make wast more prodigall,
Then when our beare was good, that John may float
To Styx in beare, and lift up Charons boat,
With wholesome waves: and as the Conduits ran
With Claret, at the Coronation,
So let your Channels flow with single tiffe,
For John I hope is crown'd; take off your whiffe,
Ye men of Rosemary, and drinke up all,
Remembring 'tis a Burless funerall:
Had he beene master of good double beare,
My life for his, John Dawson had beene here.
Doctor Corbet against the Anniversarist.
Even so dead Hector thrice was triumpht onThe walls of Troy, thrice slaine when fates had done,
31
Torment his ashes, and prophane his Ghost,
At Henries vault his peace and sacred hearse
Are torne and batter'd by thy anniverse;
Wast not enough nature and strength were foes,
But thou must yearely murther him in prose?
Or couldst thou hope thy raving phrase could make
A louder eccho then the Almanacke?
Trust me, November doth more gastly looke
In Dades and Hoptons penny, then thy booke.
A sadder record their sixt figure beares,
Then thy false printed and ambitious teares.
For were it not for Christmas which is nigh,
When fruite, spice, eaten, and digested Pye
Call for more paper, no man could make shift
How to imploy thy writings to his thrift;
Wherefore forbeare for pity, or for shame,
And bid some richer pen redeeme his name
From rottennesse; leave thou him captive, since
So vile a Price nee'r ransom'd such a Prince.
A Letter sent from Doctor Corbet to Master Ailebury, Decem. 9. 1618.
My Brother and much more, hadst thou been mine,Hadst thou in one rich present of a line
Inclos'd Sir Francis, for in all this store,
No gift can cost thee lesse, or binde me more,
32
I should not with a tardy welcome burne;
But had let loose my joy at him long since,
Which now will seeme but studied negligence;
But I forgive thee, two things kept thee from it,
First such a friend to gaze on, next a Comet,
Which Comet we discerne, though not so true
As you at Sion, as long taild as you,
We know already how will stand the case,
With Barnavell of universall grace,
Though Spaine deserve the whole Star, if the fall
Be true of Lerma Duke, and Cardinall.
Marry in France, we feare no blood, but wine,
Lesse danger's in her sword, then in her vine:
And thus we leave the blazers comming over
For our portents are wise and end at Dover,
And though we use no forward censuring,
Nor send our learned Proctors to the King,
Yet every morning when the starre doth rise,
There is no blacke for three houres in our eyes;
But like a Puritane dreamer towards this light
All eyes turne upward, all are zeale and white:
More it is doubtfull that this prodigie
Will turne ten Schooles to one Astronomy;
And the Analysis we justly feare,
Since every Art doth seeke for rescue there,
Physitians, Lawyers, Glovers on the stall,
The Shopkeepers speake Mathematicks all,
And though men read no Gospels in these signes,
Yet all professions are become Divines,
All weapons from the Bodkin to the Pike,
The Masons Rule, and Tailors Yard alike,
33
On Fluirs and Hoboyes, made them Jacobs staves,
Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive,
And every first is made a Prospective;
Burton to Gunter Cants, and Burton heares
From Gunter, and th'Exchange both tongue & eare.
By carriage: thus doth mired Guy complaine,
His Waggon in their letters beates Charles Waine,
Charles Waine, to which they say the tayle will reach
And at this distance they both heare, and teach.
Now for the peace of God and men, advise
(Thou that hast where withall to make us wise)
Thine owne rich studies, and deepe Harriors mine,
In which there is no drosse, but all refine,
O tell us what to trust to, lest we wax
All stiffe and stupid with his paralex;
Say, shall the old Philosophy be true?
Or doth he ride above the Moone thinke you?
Is he a Meteor forced by the Sun?
Or a first body from creation?
Hath the same starre beene object of the wonder
Of our forefathers? shall the same come under
The sentence of our Nephewes? write and send
Or else this starre a quarrell doth pretend.
Doctor Corbet to the Lord Mordant.
My Lord, I doe confesse at the first newes
Of your returne from home, I did refuse
To visit you, for feare the Northerne winde
Had pierc'd into your manners, and your minde,
For feare you might want memory to forget
Some arts of which might haunt you yet,
But when I knew you were, and when I heard
You were at Woodstocke seene well sun'd and ayr'd,
That your contagion in you now was spent,
And you were just Lord Mordant as you went,
I then resolv'd to come, and did not doubt
To be in season, though the Bucke was out.
Of your returne from home, I did refuse
34
Had pierc'd into your manners, and your minde,
For feare you might want memory to forget
Some arts of which might haunt you yet,
But when I knew you were, and when I heard
You were at Woodstocke seene well sun'd and ayr'd,
That your contagion in you now was spent,
And you were just Lord Mordant as you went,
I then resolv'd to come, and did not doubt
To be in season, though the Bucke was out.
Windsor the place, the day was Holy-rood,
Saint George my muse, for be it understood,
For all Saint George more early in the yeare
Broke fast, and cate a bit, yet he din'd here,
And though in Aprill in red inke he shine,
Know't 'twas September made him red with wine.
To this good sport rode I, as being allow'd
To see the King, and cry him in the crowd,
And at all solemne meetings have the grace
To thrust, and to be trod on by my place.
Saint George my muse, for be it understood,
For all Saint George more early in the yeare
Broke fast, and cate a bit, yet he din'd here,
And though in Aprill in red inke he shine,
Know't 'twas September made him red with wine.
To this good sport rode I, as being allow'd
To see the King, and cry him in the crowd,
And at all solemne meetings have the grace
To thrust, and to be trod on by my place.
Where when I come I see the Church beset
With tumults, as had all the brethren met
To heare some silenc'd teacher in that quarter,
Inveigh against the Order of the Garter;
And justly might the weake be griev'd and wrung,
Because the Garter prayes in a strange tongue,
And doth retaine traditions yet of France,
In an old [Honi soit qui maly pense],
Whence learne (those Knights that order that bare rane)
That all besides the buckle is prophane;
But there was no such doctrine now at stake,
No starv'd physitian from the pulpit spake,
And yet the Church was full, all sorts of men,
Religions, sexes, ages were there then,
Whilst he that keepes the Quire, togother locks
Papists and Puritanes, the Pope and Knox.
Which made some wise men feare that love our nation;
This mixture would beget a toleration;
Or that Religion should united be,
When they said Service, these the Letany.
But no such hast, this dayes devotion lies
Not in the hearts of men, but in their eyes;
They that doe see Saint George, heare him aright,
For he loves not to parley, but to fight.
Amongst this audience (my Lord) stood I
Well edified as any that stood by;
And knew how many leggs a Knight lets fall,
Betwixt the King, the offring, and his stall:
Aske me but of their robes, I shall relate
The colour and the fashion, and the state:
I saw too the procession without doore,
What the poore Knights and what the Prebends wore;
All this my neighbours that were by me tooke,
Who div'd but in the garment, and the looke,
But I saw more, and though I have their fate
In place and favour, yet I want their pate:
Me thought I then did these first ages know,
Which brought forth Knights so arm'd, and looking so,
Who would maintaine their oath and bind their word
With these two seales, an Altar and a Sword,
Then saw I George new Sainted, when such Priests
Wore him not onely on, but in their breasts.
Oft did I wish that day, with open vow,
O that my Country were in danger now;
And 'twas no treason, who could feare to die
When he was sure his rescue was so nigh?
With tumults, as had all the brethren met
To heare some silenc'd teacher in that quarter,
Inveigh against the Order of the Garter;
And justly might the weake be griev'd and wrung,
Because the Garter prayes in a strange tongue,
And doth retaine traditions yet of France,
In an old [Honi soit qui maly pense],
Whence learne (those Knights that order that bare rane)
That all besides the buckle is prophane;
But there was no such doctrine now at stake,
No starv'd physitian from the pulpit spake,
35
Religions, sexes, ages were there then,
Whilst he that keepes the Quire, togother locks
Papists and Puritanes, the Pope and Knox.
Which made some wise men feare that love our nation;
This mixture would beget a toleration;
Or that Religion should united be,
When they said Service, these the Letany.
But no such hast, this dayes devotion lies
Not in the hearts of men, but in their eyes;
They that doe see Saint George, heare him aright,
For he loves not to parley, but to fight.
Amongst this audience (my Lord) stood I
Well edified as any that stood by;
And knew how many leggs a Knight lets fall,
Betwixt the King, the offring, and his stall:
Aske me but of their robes, I shall relate
The colour and the fashion, and the state:
I saw too the procession without doore,
What the poore Knights and what the Prebends wore;
All this my neighbours that were by me tooke,
Who div'd but in the garment, and the looke,
But I saw more, and though I have their fate
In place and favour, yet I want their pate:
Me thought I then did these first ages know,
Which brought forth Knights so arm'd, and looking so,
Who would maintaine their oath and bind their word
With these two seales, an Altar and a Sword,
Then saw I George new Sainted, when such Priests
Wore him not onely on, but in their breasts.
Oft did I wish that day, with open vow,
O that my Country were in danger now;
36
When he was sure his rescue was so nigh?
And here I might a just digression make,
Whilst of some particular Knights I spake,
To whom I owe my thankes, but 'twere not best
By praysing two or three t'accuse the rest,
Nor can I sing that order or those men,
That are above the mysterie of my pen;
And private fingers may not touch those things
Whose authors Princes are, whose partners Kings:
Wherefore unburnt I will refraine that fire,
Lest hearing such a Theame I should aspire
T'include my King and Prince, and so rehearse
Names fitter for my Prayer then my Verse;
He that will speake of Princes let him use
More grace then wit, know God's above his Muse.
Whilst of some particular Knights I spake,
To whom I owe my thankes, but 'twere not best
By praysing two or three t'accuse the rest,
Nor can I sing that order or those men,
That are above the mysterie of my pen;
And private fingers may not touch those things
Whose authors Princes are, whose partners Kings:
Wherefore unburnt I will refraine that fire,
Lest hearing such a Theame I should aspire
T'include my King and Prince, and so rehearse
Names fitter for my Prayer then my Verse;
He that will speake of Princes let him use
More grace then wit, know God's above his Muse.
No more of counsell harke the Trumpets sound,
And the grave Organs with the Antheme drown'd,
The Church had said Amen to all their rites,
And now the Trojan horse lets loose her Knights,
The triumph moves: O what could added be
Save your successe to that solemnity;
Which I expect and doubt not but to see't,
When the Kings favour and your worth shall meet,
I thinke the robes will now become you so,
Saint George himselfe would not his owne Knights know,
From the Lord Mordant. Pardon me that preach
A doctrine onely that King James can teach;
To whom I leave you who alone hath right
To make Knights Lords; and you a Lord a Knight.
And the grave Organs with the Antheme drown'd,
The Church had said Amen to all their rites,
And now the Trojan horse lets loose her Knights,
The triumph moves: O what could added be
Save your successe to that solemnity;
Which I expect and doubt not but to see't,
When the Kings favour and your worth shall meet,
I thinke the robes will now become you so,
Saint George himselfe would not his owne Knights know,
From the Lord Mordant. Pardon me that preach
A doctrine onely that King James can teach;
To whom I leave you who alone hath right
To make Knights Lords; and you a Lord a Knight.
Imagine now the Scene lies in the hall,
(For at high noone we are recusants all)
The Church is emptie as the bellies were,
Of the spectators that had languish there;
And now the favorites of the Clearke o'th' checke,
Who oft had yawnd and stretcht our many a necke
Twixt morne and evening, he dull seeders on
Fresh patience, and raysins of the Sun,
They who liv'd in the Hall five houres at least,
As if 'twere an arraignment, not a feast,
And looke so like the hangings they stand neere,
None could discerne which the true pictures were;
These now shall be refresht, whiles the bold crum
Strikes up his frolick through the Hall they come.
Here might I end, my Lord, and here subscribe
Your honours to his power: but O what bribe,
What feare, or mulct can make my muse refraine
When she is urg'd of nature or disdaine?
Not all the guard shall hold me, I must write
Though they both sweare, and lie, how they would fight
If I proceed: nay though their Captaine say
Hold him, or else you shall not eate to day;
These goodly yeomen must not scape my pen,
'Twas dinner time, and I must speake of men;
So to the Hall made I, with little care
To praise the dishes, or to tast the fare;
Much lesse t'endanger the least Tart, or Pye
By any water there stolne, and set by,
But to compute the value of the meare,
Which was for glory, not for hunger eate;
Nor did I feare, stand backe: who passed before
The presence or the privy Chamber doore,
But woe is me, the Guard, those men of warre
But two weapons use, Beefe, and the Barre
Began to gripe me, knowing not in truth
That I had sung John Dory in my youth,
Or that I knew the day when I could chaunt,
Chivie, and Arthur, or the Siege of Gaunt:
And though these be the vertues which must try,
Who is most worthy of their courtesie,
They profited me nothing, for no notes
Will move them now, they're dense in their new coates;
Wherefore on run I, afresh they fall, and show
Themselves more active then before, as though
They had some wager laid, and did contend
Who should abuse me furthest at armes end;
One I remember with a grizled beard,
And better growne then any of the heard,
One were he well examin'd, and made looke
His name in his owne parish, and Church Booke,
Could hardly prove his Christendome, and yet
It seemes he had two names, for there were set
On a white Calves doublet which he wore,
Two Capitall Letters of a name, before;
Letters belike which he had spu'd, and spilt,
When the great Bumbard leakt, or was at tilt:
This Iron side takes hold, and suddenly
Hurles me, by judgement of the standers by
Some twelve foot by the square, takes me againe
Qut throwes it halfe a barre, and thus we twaine
At this hot exercise an houre had spent.
He the fierce agent, I the instrument,
My man began to rage, but I cry'd peace,
When he is dry or hungry he will cease,
Peace for the Lords sake Nicholas, lest they take us
And use us worse then Hercules did Cacus.
(For at high noone we are recusants all)
37
Of the spectators that had languish there;
And now the favorites of the Clearke o'th' checke,
Who oft had yawnd and stretcht our many a necke
Twixt morne and evening, he dull seeders on
Fresh patience, and raysins of the Sun,
They who liv'd in the Hall five houres at least,
As if 'twere an arraignment, not a feast,
And looke so like the hangings they stand neere,
None could discerne which the true pictures were;
These now shall be refresht, whiles the bold crum
Strikes up his frolick through the Hall they come.
Here might I end, my Lord, and here subscribe
Your honours to his power: but O what bribe,
What feare, or mulct can make my muse refraine
When she is urg'd of nature or disdaine?
Not all the guard shall hold me, I must write
Though they both sweare, and lie, how they would fight
If I proceed: nay though their Captaine say
Hold him, or else you shall not eate to day;
These goodly yeomen must not scape my pen,
'Twas dinner time, and I must speake of men;
So to the Hall made I, with little care
To praise the dishes, or to tast the fare;
Much lesse t'endanger the least Tart, or Pye
By any water there stolne, and set by,
But to compute the value of the meare,
Which was for glory, not for hunger eate;
Nor did I feare, stand backe: who passed before
The presence or the privy Chamber doore,
But woe is me, the Guard, those men of warre
But two weapons use, Beefe, and the Barre
38
That I had sung John Dory in my youth,
Or that I knew the day when I could chaunt,
Chivie, and Arthur, or the Siege of Gaunt:
And though these be the vertues which must try,
Who is most worthy of their courtesie,
They profited me nothing, for no notes
Will move them now, they're dense in their new coates;
Wherefore on run I, afresh they fall, and show
Themselves more active then before, as though
They had some wager laid, and did contend
Who should abuse me furthest at armes end;
One I remember with a grizled beard,
And better growne then any of the heard,
One were he well examin'd, and made looke
His name in his owne parish, and Church Booke,
Could hardly prove his Christendome, and yet
It seemes he had two names, for there were set
On a white Calves doublet which he wore,
Two Capitall Letters of a name, before;
Letters belike which he had spu'd, and spilt,
When the great Bumbard leakt, or was at tilt:
This Iron side takes hold, and suddenly
Hurles me, by judgement of the standers by
Some twelve foot by the square, takes me againe
Qut throwes it halfe a barre, and thus we twaine
At this hot exercise an houre had spent.
He the fierce agent, I the instrument,
My man began to rage, but I cry'd peace,
When he is dry or hungry he will cease,
Peace for the Lords sake Nicholas, lest they take us
And use us worse then Hercules did Cacus.
39
And now I breath my Lord, now have I time
To tell the cause and to confesse the crime;
I was in blacke, a Scholler straight they guess'd,
Indeed I colourd for it at the least,
I spake them saire, desir'd to see the hall,
And gave them reasons for it, this was all;
By which I learne it is a maine offence,
So neere the Cleark 'oth'Check to utter sense.
Talke of your emblems masters, and relate
How Æsop hath it, and how Alciate,
The Cocke, the pearle, the dunghill and the gem,
This passeth all that talke of sense to them.
Much more good service was committed yet,
Which I in such a tumult must forget,
But shall I smother that prodigious fit,
Which past in cleare invention, and pure wit?
As thus: a nimble knave, though somewhat far,
Strikes at my head, and fairely steales my hat;
Another breakes a jest, (well Windsor, well,
What will ensue there's none can tell.
When they spend wit, serve God) yet 'twas not much,
Although the Clamour and the applause were such,
As when Sir Archey, or Garret doth provoke them,
And with wide laughter, and a cheate loafe choake them.
What was the jest d'ye aske? I dare repeat it,
And put it home before you shall entreate it,
He call'd me Bloxford man, confesse I must
'Twas bitter; and it griev'd me in a thrust
That most ingratefull word Bloxford to heare
From him whose breath yet stunke of Oxford Beare;
But let it passe, for I have now pass'd through
Their halberds, (and worse weapons) their teeth too,
And of a worthy officer was invited
To dine; who all their rudenesse hath requited,
Where we had mirth and meate, and a large boord
Furnisht with all the kitchin could affoord,
But to conclude, to wipe off from before ye
All this which is no better then a story;
Had this affront beene done me by command
Of noble Fenton, had their captives hand
Directed them to this, I should beleeve
I had no cause to jest, but much to grieve;
Or had discerning Pembrooke seene this done
And thought it well bestowed, I would have run
Where no good man had dwelt, no learnd should flie,
Where no disease would keepe me company,
Where it should be preferment to endure
To reach a Schoole or else to serve a cure.
To tell the cause and to confesse the crime;
I was in blacke, a Scholler straight they guess'd,
Indeed I colourd for it at the least,
I spake them saire, desir'd to see the hall,
And gave them reasons for it, this was all;
By which I learne it is a maine offence,
So neere the Cleark 'oth'Check to utter sense.
Talke of your emblems masters, and relate
How Æsop hath it, and how Alciate,
The Cocke, the pearle, the dunghill and the gem,
This passeth all that talke of sense to them.
Much more good service was committed yet,
Which I in such a tumult must forget,
But shall I smother that prodigious fit,
Which past in cleare invention, and pure wit?
As thus: a nimble knave, though somewhat far,
Strikes at my head, and fairely steales my hat;
Another breakes a jest, (well Windsor, well,
What will ensue there's none can tell.
When they spend wit, serve God) yet 'twas not much,
Although the Clamour and the applause were such,
As when Sir Archey, or Garret doth provoke them,
And with wide laughter, and a cheate loafe choake them.
What was the jest d'ye aske? I dare repeat it,
And put it home before you shall entreate it,
He call'd me Bloxford man, confesse I must
'Twas bitter; and it griev'd me in a thrust
That most ingratefull word Bloxford to heare
From him whose breath yet stunke of Oxford Beare;
But let it passe, for I have now pass'd through
Their halberds, (and worse weapons) their teeth too,
40
To dine; who all their rudenesse hath requited,
Where we had mirth and meate, and a large boord
Furnisht with all the kitchin could affoord,
But to conclude, to wipe off from before ye
All this which is no better then a story;
Had this affront beene done me by command
Of noble Fenton, had their captives hand
Directed them to this, I should beleeve
I had no cause to jest, but much to grieve;
Or had discerning Pembrooke seene this done
And thought it well bestowed, I would have run
Where no good man had dwelt, no learnd should flie,
Where no disease would keepe me company,
Where it should be preferment to endure
To reach a Schoole or else to serve a cure.
But as it stands, the persons and the cause
Considered well, my manners and their I awes,
'Tis no affliction to me, for even thus
Saint Paul hath sought with beasts at Ephesus,
And I at Windsor; let this comfort then
Rest with all able and deserving men;
He that will please the guard and not provoke
Court wits, must sell his learning, buy a cloake;
For at all feasts, and maskes the doome hath been,
A man thrust sorth, and a gay cloake let in.
Considered well, my manners and their I awes,
'Tis no affliction to me, for even thus
Saint Paul hath sought with beasts at Ephesus,
And I at Windsor; let this comfort then
Rest with all able and deserving men;
He that will please the guard and not provoke
Court wits, must sell his learning, buy a cloake;
For at all feasts, and maskes the doome hath been,
A man thrust sorth, and a gay cloake let in.
To the Duke of Buckingham.
I've read of Ilands floating and remov'dIn Ovids time, but never saw it prov'd,
41
(By your transporting England) is made true.
We are not whore we were, the dog-Star reignes
No cooler in our climate, then in Spaines;
The selfesame breath, same age, same heate, same burning
Is here, and there, 'twill be till your returning;
Come ere the Cards be altred, else perhaps
Your stay may make an errour in our mappes,
Lest England will be sound when you shall passe;
A thousand times more Southward then it was;
O that you were (my Lord) O that you were
Now in Black-Friers, or had a disguis'd eare,
Or you were Smith againe two houres to be
In Pauls next Sunday, at full Sea at three;
There you should heare the Legends of each day,
The perills of your Inne, and of your way
Your enterprizes, accidents untill
You should arrive at Court and reach Madrill.
There should you heare how the States grandees flout you,
With their twice diligence about you,
How one inviron'd Prince walkes with a guard,
Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barrd;
How not a Chaplaine of his owne may stay
When he would heare a Sermon preacht, or pray.
You would be hungry having din'd to heare
The price of victuall, and the scarcity there,
As if the Prince had ventured there his life
To make a famine, not to setch a wife.
Your Egges (which must be addle too) are deare
As English Capons, Capons as sheepe here,
No grasse for horse or cattle, for they say
It is not cut and made, grasse there growes hay,
42
You never heard of raw Oyster there;
Your cold meate comes in reeking, there your wine
Is all burnt Sacke, the fire was in the vine;
Item the Pullets are distinguisht there
Into foure quarters, as we branch the yeare,
And are a weeke a wasting; Munday noone
A wing, at supper something with a spoone;
Tuesday a leg, and so forth, Sunday more,
The Liver and the gizzards betwixt foure,
As for the mutton, in the best house holder,
'Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder:
Lord how our stomacks come to us againe,
When we conceive what snatching is in Spaine?
I whilst I write and doe your newes repeate,
Am forc't to call for breakefast in and eate;
And doe you wonder at this dearth the while
The flood that makes it runs ith' middle Ile,
Poets of Pauls, these of Duke Humfreys messe,
That feed on naught but graves and emptinesse.
But hearke you noble Sir, in one crosse weeke,
My Lord hath lost 4000. l. at Gleeke,
And sith they doe allow you little meate,
They are content your losses should be great;
False on my Deanery, falser then your fare is
Or then the difference with the Grand d'Olivaries,
Which was reported strongly for one tide,
But after six houres flowing eb'd and dy'd.
If God would not this great designe should be,
Perfect and round without some knavery,
Nor that our Prince should end this enterprize,
But for so many tales, so many lies.
43
Mens tongues should become rougher then the seas,
And that th'expence of paper should be such,
First written, then translated out of Dutch,
Currants, diaries, packets, newes, more newes
Which innocent whitenesse constantly abuse
If first the Belgick pismire must be seene,
Before the Spanish Lady be our Queene,
With that successe and such an end at last,
All's welcome, pleasant, gratefull that is past,
And such an end I pray that you may see
A type of that which mother Zebedee
Wisht for her Sonnes in heaven, the Prince and you
At either hand of James, you need not sue,
Him on the right, you on the left, the King
Safe in the middest, you both invironing,
Then shall I tell my Lord his words and band
Are forfeit till I kisse the Prince his hand,
Then shall I tell the Duke our royall friend,
How all your other honours, this hath earn'd,
This you have wrought for, this you hammerd out,
Like a strong Smith, good workman, and a stout;
In this I have a part, in this I see
Some new addition smiling upon me;
Who in an humble manner crave my share
In all your greatnesse whatso'ere they are.
R. Corbet.
Upon the death of the Lady Haddington dying of the Small Pox.
Deare losse! to tell the world I griev'd, were true,But that were to bewayle my selfe, not you.
44
For which nor publike thoughts nor private cares,
For when thy fate I publish among men
I should have power to write with the States pen.
I should by naming thee force publique teares,
And bid their eyes pay ransome for their eares.
First, thy whole life was a short feast of wit,
And death the attendant which did wait on it;
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though 'twere fame enough with thee, where fame
And vertues nothing but an ample name,
That thou wert highly borne, which no man doubts,
And so might swathe base deeds in noble {clouts},
Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud,
And being noble wast not foule, nor proud;
And when thy fruit was ripe, when all the suite
Of all the longing Courtiers for thy fruit,
How wisely didst thou choose soure blessed eyes,
The Kings and thine had taught thee to be wise.
Did not the best of men the Virgin give
Into his hands by whom himselfe did live,
Nor did they two yeares after talke of force,
Or Lady-like, make suite for a divorse;
Who when their owne vile lust is fully spent
Cry out my Lord, my Lord is impotent;
Nor hast thou in his Nuptiall armes injoyd
Barren embraces, but sweet girld and boyd;
Twice pretty ones, twice worthy were their youth
Mightst thou but bring them up that broughtst them forth,
She would have taught them by a thousand straines
Her blood runs in their manners, not their veines,
45
And country sicknesse above breath at Court,
Oh what a want of her losse gallants have,
Since she hath changd her window for a grave;
From whence she wont to dart her wit so fast,
And sticke them in their Coaches as they past,
Who now shall make well coloured vice looke pale
And a curld meteor with her eyes exhale
And talke him into nothing, who shall dare
Tell barren braine they live in fertile ayre?
Who now shall keepe old Countesses in awe,
And by tart similies repentance draw
From those whom Preachers had given ore? some such
Whom Sermons could not reach her arrowes touch,
Hereafter fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause,
He of fourscore, three night caps, and two hands,
Shall marry her of twenty and get heirds,
Which shall be thought his owne, and none shall say,
But 'tis a wondrous blessing, and he may.
Nor which is more then pitty, many a knight
Who can doe more then quarrell, lesse then fight;
Shall choose his weapons, ground, draw seconds thither,
Put up his sword, and not be laught at neither;
O thou deformed unwoman-like disgrace,
Thou plowst up flesh and blood, and there fowst peace,
And leaves such print on beauty if thou come,
As clouted shooes doe on a floore of loome,
Thou that of faces hony combes dost make,
And of two breasts two costenders; forsake
Thy deadly trade, thou are now rich, give ore,
46
Goe where thou art invoked every houre;
Amongst the gamesters where they call thee thick
At the last maine, of the last pockie nick,
Get thee a lodging where thy clients dice,
There thou shalt practise on more then one vice,
There's where withall to entertain the pox,
Ther'es more then reason cousening for the Box,
Thou who hast such superfluous store of gaine,
Why stickst thou on whose ruine is thy shame {?}
O thou hast murdered where thou shouldst have kist,
And where thy shaft was needfull there thou mist,
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face,
Where thy ill favoured kindnesse might adde grace,
That men might say, How beauteous once was she,
Or what a peece ere she was seasd by thee!
Thou shouldst have wrought upon some Ladies mould
That nere did love her Lord, nor never could,
Untill she were deform'd, this crueltie
Were then within the rule of charitie:
But upon one whose beautie was above
All sort of beautie, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfeit,
Was to erect a pyramis of Jeat,
And put out fire to dig a turfe from hell,
And place it where a blessed soule should dwell;
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When 'twas no more a body nor good clay,
But a high ulcer, O thou heavenly race,
Thou soule which shun'st th'infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison; Soule, spotlesse, faire
Rest where no health, no cold not compounds are,
47
Which thy fraile flesh divides and thy disease.
R. Corbet.
A proper new Ballad, intituled The Fairies farewel, or God a mercy Will, to be sung or whistled, to the tune of the Medow Brow by the learned, by the unlearned to the tune of Fortune.
Farewell rewards and Fairies
Good housewives now may say,
For now fowle sluts in Dairies
Do fare as well as they;
And though they sweepe their hearths no lesse
Then maides were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse,
Findes Six pence in her shooe?
Good housewives now may say,
For now fowle sluts in Dairies
Do fare as well as they;
And though they sweepe their hearths no lesse
Then maides were wont to doe,
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse,
Findes Six pence in her shooe?
Lament, lament old Abbies
The Fairies lost command,
They did but change Priests babies,
But some have chang'd your land
And all your children stolne from thence
Are now growne puritanes,
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demaines.
The Fairies lost command,
They did but change Priests babies,
But some have chang'd your land
And all your children stolne from thence
Are now growne puritanes,
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demaines.
At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe and sloath,
These pretty Ladies had,
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cisse to milking Rose;
Then merrily went their Tabor
And nimbly went their Toes.
You merry were and glad,
48
These pretty Ladies had,
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cisse to milking Rose;
Then merrily went their Tabor
And nimbly went their Toes.
Witnesse those rings and roundelayes
Of theirs which yet remaine,
Were footed in Queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy plaine.
But since of late Elizabeth
And later James came in,
They never daunc'd on any heath
As when the time had beene.
Of theirs which yet remaine,
Were footed in Queene Maries dayes
On many a grassy plaine.
But since of late Elizabeth
And later James came in,
They never daunc'd on any heath
As when the time had beene.
By which we note the Fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their Songs were Ave Maries,
Their daunces were procession;
But now alas they all are dead
Or gone beyond the Seas,
Or further from Religion fled
Or else they take their ease.
Were of the old profession,
Their Songs were Ave Maries,
Their daunces were procession;
But now alas they all are dead
Or gone beyond the Seas,
Or further from Religion fled
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And who so kept not secretly
Their mirth was punisht sure.
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blew;
O how the Common-wealth doth need
Such Iustices as you!
They never could endure,
And who so kept not secretly
Their mirth was punisht sure.
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blew;
49
Such Iustices as you!
Now they have left our Quarters,
A Register they have,
Who can preserve their Charters;
A Man both wise and grave.
A hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name,
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
A Register they have,
Who can preserve their Charters;
A Man both wise and grave.
A hundred of their merry pranks
By one that I could name,
Are kept in store; con twenty thanks
To William for the same.
To William Churne of Staffordshire,
Give laud and praises due;
Who every meale can mend your cheere,
With Tales both old and true.
To William all give audience,
And pray you for his Noddle;
For all the Fairies evidence,
Were lost if it were addle.
Give laud and praises due;
Who every meale can mend your cheere,
With Tales both old and true.
To William all give audience,
And pray you for his Noddle;
For all the Fairies evidence,
Were lost if it were addle.
To the Ghost of Rob. Wisdome.
Thou once a Body, now but ayre,
Arch-botcher of a Psalme or Prayer;
From Carfaux come:
Arch-botcher of a Psalme or Prayer;
From Carfaux come:
And patch us up a zealous Lay,
With an old Ever and for aye,
Or all and some.
With an old Ever and for aye,
Or all and some.
50
Or such a Spirit lend me,
As may a Hymn down send me,
To purge my brain.
As may a Hymn down send me,
To purge my brain.
So Robert look behinde thee,
Lest Turk or Pope doe finde thee;
And goe to bed again.
Lest Turk or Pope doe finde thee;
And goe to bed again.
An Epitaph on Tho. Jonce.
Here for the nonce
Came Thomas Jonce,
In St. Jileses Church to lye.
Came Thomas Jonce,
In St. Jileses Church to lye.
None Welch before,
None Welshman more,
Till Shon Clerk dye.
None Welshman more,
Till Shon Clerk dye.
Ile tole the Bell,
Ile ring his Knell;
He dyed well,
He's saved from Hell:
And so farewell
Tom Jonce.
Ile ring his Knell;
He dyed well,
He's saved from Hell:
And so farewell
Tom Jonce.
51
On the Earl of Dorsets Death.
Let no prophane ignoble foot tread here,This hallowed piece of Earth, Dorset lyes there:
A small poor Relique of a Noble spirit,
Free as the Aire, and ample as his Merit:
A soul refin'd, no proud-forgetting Lord,
But mindfull of mean names, and of his word:
Who lov'd men for his Honour, not his ends,
And had the noblest way of getting friends
By loving first, and yet who knew the Court,
But understood it better by report
Then practise: He nothing took from thence
But the Kings favour for his recompence.
Who for Religion, or his Countreys good,
Neither his Honour valued, nor his blood.
Rich in the worlds opinion, and mens praise,
And full in all we could desire, but dayes.
He that is warn'd of this, and shall forbeare
To vent a sigh for him, or shed a teare,
May he live long scorn'd, and unpitied fall,
And want a Mourner at his Funerall.
R. Corbet.
On Henry Bolings.
If gentlenesse could tame the Fates, or witDeliver man, Bolings had not dyed yet:
But one which over us in judgement sits,
Doth say our sins are stronger then our wits.
R. Corbet.
52
The Authors Answer.
So to dead Hector boyes may doe disgrace,That durst not look upon his living face.
So worst of men behinde their betters back
May stretch mens names and credit on the rack.
Good friend, our generall tye to him that's gone,
Should love the man that yearly doth him mone:
The Authors zeale and place he now doth hold,
His love and duty makes him be thus bold
To offer this poor mite, his Anniverse
Unto his good great Masters scared Herse:
The which he doth with priviledge of name,
Whilst others 'midst their Ale in Corners blame.
A penny-worth in Print they never made,
Yet think themselves as good as Pond or Dade,
One Anniverse; when thou hast done thus twice,
Thy words among the best will be of Price.
Dr. Price.
A Reply.
[Nor is it griev'd (grave Youth) the memorie]
Nor is it griev'd (grave Youth) the memorieOf such a Story, such a Book as he,
That such a Copy through the world were read,
Henry yet lives, though he be buryed
I could be wisht that every day could beare
Him our good witnesse that he still were here;
53
(Such Man) could tell you how the day had run.
O 'twere an honest cause for him, could say,
I have been busie, and wept out the day
Remembring him; an Epitaph would last,
Were such a Trophee, such a Banner plac't
Upon his Herse as this, Here a man lyes
Was slain by Henry's dart, not Destinies.
But for a Cobler to throw up his Cap,
And cry, The Prince, the Prince: O dire mishap!
Or a Geneva-Bridegroom after grace
To throw his Spouse i'th fire, or scratch her face:
To the tune o'th' Lamentation, and delay
His Friday Capon till the Sabbath-day:
Or an old Popish Lady half vow'd dead,
To fast away the day with Ginger-bread:
For him to write such Annalls: All these things
Doe open laughter, and shut up griefs springs.
Wherefore Vertumnus, if you Print the next,
Bring better votes, or choose a meaner Text.
R. Corbet.
FINIS.
| Certain Elegant Poems | |