Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

When I past Paules, and travell’d in that walke
Where all oure Brittaine-sinners sweare and talk[36];
Ould Harry-ruffians, bankerupts, southsayers,
And youth, whose cousenage is as ould as theirs;
And then beheld the body of my lord
Trodd under foote by vice that he abhorr’d;
It wounded me the Landlord of all times
Should let long lives and leases to their crimes,
And to _his_ springing honour did afford
Scarce soe much time as to the prophet’s gourd.
Yet since swift flights of virtue have apt ends,
Like breath of angels, which a blessing sends,
And vanisheth withall, whilst fouler deeds
Expect a tedious harvest for bad seeds;
I blame not fame and nature if they gave,
Where they could give no more, their last, a grave.
And wisely doe thy greived freinds forbeare
Bubbles and alabaster boyes to reare
On thy religious dust: for men did know
Thy life, which such illusions cannot show:
For thou hast trod among those happy ones
Who trust not in their superscriptions,
Their hired epitaphs, and perjured stone,
Which oft belyes the soule when shee is gon;
And durst committ thy body, as it lyes,
To tongues of living men, nay unborne eyes.
What profits thee a sheet of lead? What good
If on thy coarse a marble quarry stood?
Let those that feare their rising purchase vaults,
And reare them statues to excuse their faults;
As if, like birds that peck at painted grapes,
Their judge knew not their _persons_ from their _shapes_.
Whilst thou assured, through thy easyer dust
Shall rise at first; they would not though they must.
Nor needs the Chancellor boast, whose pyramis
Above the host and altar reared is[37];
For though thy body fill a viler roome,
Thou shalt not change _deedes_ with him for his _tombe_.

THOMÆ CORIATO DE ODCOMBE.

The following panegyric on the hero of Odcombe, Thomas Coryate, a pedantic coxcomb, with just brains enough to be ridiculous, to whom the world is much more indebted for becoming “the whetstone of the wits” than for any doings of his own, and the particulars of whose life and peregrinations may be found in every collection of biography, is printed in the Odcombian Banquet, 1611, 4to. sign. I. 3.

The Latin lines have been omitted in the former impressions of Bishop Corbet’s poems.

SPECTATISSIMO, PUNCTISQUE OMNIBUS DIGNISSIMO, THOMÆ CORIATO DE ODCOMBE, PEREGRINANTI, PEDESTRIS ORDINIS, EQUESTRISQUE FAMÆ.

Quod mare transieris, quod rura urbesque pedester,
Jamque colat reduces patria læta pedes:
Quodque idem numero tibi calceus hæret, et illo
Cum _corio_ redeas, quo _Coriatus_ abis:
Fatum omenque tui miramur nominis, ex quo
Calcibus et soleis fluxit aluta tuis.
Nam quicunque cadem vestigia tentat, opinor
Excoriatus erit, ni _Coriatus_ eat.

IN LIBRUM SUUM.

De te pollicitus librum es, sed in te
Est magnus tuus hic liber libellus.

TO THOMAS CORYATE.

I do not wonder, Coryate, that thou hast
Over the Alpes, through France and Savoy past,
Parch’d on thy skin, and founder’d in thy feete,
Faint, thirstie, lowsy, and didst live to see ’t.
Though these are Roman sufferings, and do shew
What creatures back thou hadst could carry so,
All I admire is thy returne, and how
Thy slender pasterns could thee beare, when now
Thy observations with thy braine ingendered,
Have stuft thy massy and voluminous head
With mountaines, abbies, churches, synagogues,
Preputial offals, and Dutch dialogues:
A burthen far more grievous then the weight
Of wine or sleep; more vexing than the freight
Of fruit and oysters, which lade many a pate,
And send folks crying home from Billingsgate.
No more shall man with mortar on his head
Set forwards towards Rome: No! thou art bred
A terror to all footmen, and all porters,
And all laymen that will turne Jews exhorters,
To flie their conquered trade. Proud England then
Embrace this luggage[38], which the Man of men
Hath landed here, and change thy well-a-day!
Into some homespun welcome roundelay.
Send of this stuffe thy territories thorough
To Ireland, Wales, and Scottish, Eddenborough.
There let this booke be read and understood,
Where is no theame nor writer halfe so good.

A CERTAIN POEM,

_As it was presented in Latine by Divines and others before His Majesty in Cambridge, by way of Enterlude, styled ~Liber novus de Adventu Regis ad Cantabrigiam~. Faithfully done into English, with some liberal Additions. Made rather to be sunge than read, to the Tune of Bonny Nell._

(The Notes are from a MS. copy in the Editor’s possession.)

It is not yet a fortnight since
Lutetia[39] entertain’d our prince,
And vented hath a studied toy
As long[40] as was the siege of Troy:
And spent herself for full five days
In speeches, exercise, and plays.

To trim the town, great care before
Was tane by th’ lord vice-chancellor;
Both morn and even he cleans’d the way,
The streets he gravelled thrice a day:
One strike of March-dust for to see
No proverb[41] would give more than he.

Their colledges were new be-painted,
Their founders eke were new be-sainted;
Nothing escap’d, nor post, nor door,
Nor gate, nor rail, nor bawd, nor whore:
You could not know (Oh strange mishap!)
Whether you saw the _town_ or _map_.

But the pure house of _Emanuel_[42]
Would not be like proud _Jesabel_,
Nor shew her self before the king
An hypocrite, or _painted_ thing:
But, that the ways might all prove fair,
Conceiv’d a tedious mile of prayer.

Upon the look’d-for seventh[43] of _March_,
Outwent the townsmen all in starch,
Both band and beard, into the field,
Where one a speech could hardly wield;
For needs he would begin his stile,
The king being from him half a mile.

They gave the king a piece of plate,
Which they hop’d never came too late;
But cry’d, Oh! look not in, great king,
For there is in it just nothing:
And so prefer’d with tune and gate,
A speech as empty as their plate.

Now, as the king came neer the town,
Each one ran crying up and down,
Alas poor _Oxford_, thou’rt undone,
For now the king’s past _Trompington_,
And rides upon his brave gray dapple,
Seeing the top of _Kings-Colledge_ chappel.

Next rode his lordship[44] on a nag,
Whose coat was blue[45], whose ruff was shag,
And then began his reverence
To speak most eloquent non-sense:
See how (quoth he) most mighty prince,
For very joy my horse doth wince.

What cryes the town? What we? (said he)
What cryes the University?
What cry the boys? What ev’ry thing?
Behold, behold, yon comes the king:
And ev’ry period he bedecks
With _En & Ecce venit Rex_.

Oft have I warn’d (quoth he) our dirt
That no silk stockings should be hurt;
But we in vain strive to be fine,
Unless your graces sun doth shine;
And with the beams of your bright eye,
You will be pleas’d our streets to dry.

Now come we to the wonderment
Of _Christendom_, and eke of _Kent_,
The _Trinity_; which to surpass,
Doth deck her spokesman[46] by a glass:
Who, clad in gay and silken weeds,
Thus opes his mouth, hark how he speeds.

I wonder what your grace doth here,
Who have expected been twelve year,
And this your son, fair _Carolus_,
That is so _Jacobissimus_[47]:
Here’s none, of all, your grace refuses,
You are most welcome to our Muses.

Although we have no bells to jangle,
Yet can we shew a fair quadrangle,
Which, though it ne’re was grac’d with king,
Yet sure it is a goodly thing:
My warning’s short, no more I’le say,
Soon you shall see a gallant play.

But nothing was so much admir’d,
As were their plays so well attir’d;
Nothing did win more praise of mine,
Then did their actors most divine[48]:
So did they drink their healths divinely;
So did they dance and skip so finely.

Their plays had sundry grave wise factors,
A perfect diocess of actors
Upon the stage; for I am sure that
There was both bishop, pastor, curat:
Nor was their labour light, or small,
The charge of some was pastoral.

Our plays were certainly much worse,
For they had a brave hobby-horse,
Which did present unto his grace
A wondrous witty ambling pace:
But we were chiefly spoyl’d by that
Which was six hours of _God knows what_[49].

His lordship then was in a rage,
His lordship lay upon the stage,
His lordship cry’d, All would be marr’d:
His lordship lov’d a-life the guard,
And did invite those mighty men,
To what think you? Even to a _Hen_.

He knew he was to use their might
To help to keep the door at night,
And well bestow’d he thought his hen,
That they might Tolebooth[50] _Oxford_ men:
He thought it did become a lord
To threaten with that bug-bear word.

Now pass we to the civil law,
And eke the doctors of the spaw,
Who all perform’d their parts so well,
Sir _Edward Ratcliff_[51] bore the bell,
Who was, by the kings own appointment,
To speak of spells, and magick oyntment.

The doctors of the civil law
Urg’d ne’re a reason worth a straw;
And though they went in silk and satten,
They _Thomson_-like[52] clip’d the kings Latine;
But yet his grace did pardon then
All treasons against _Priscian_.

Here no man spake ought to the point,
But all they said was out of joint;
Just like the chappel ominous
I’ the colledge called _God with us_:
Which truly[53] doth stand much awry,
Just north and south, _yes verily_.

Philosophers did well their parts,
Which prov’d them masters of their arts;
Their moderator was no fool,
He far from _Cambridge_ kept a school:
The country did such store afford,
The proctors might not speak a word.

But to conclude, the king was pleas’d,
And of the court the town was eas’d:
Yet _Oxford_ though (dear sister) hark yet,
The king is gone but to _New-market_,
And comes again e’re it be long,
Then you may make another song.

The king being gone from _Trinity_,
They make a scramble for degree;
Masters of all sorts, and all ages,
Keepers, subcizers, lackeyes, pages,
Who all did throng to come aboard,
With _Pray make me_ now, _Good my lord_.

They prest his lordship wondrous hard,
His lordship then did want the guard;
So did they throng him for the nonce,
Until he blest them all at once,
And cryed, _Hodiissimè_:
_Omnes Magistri estote_.

Nor is this all which we do sing,
For of your praise the world must ring:
Reader, unto your tackling look,
For there is coming forth a book
Will spoyl _Joseph Barnesius_
The sale of _Rex Platonicus_.

AN ANSWER TO THE FORMER SONG, IN LATIN AND ENGLISH, BY ⸺ LAKES.

(From an Autograph in the Editor’s possession.)

A ballad late was made,
But God knowes who ’es the penner,
Some say the rhyming sculler,
And others say ’twas Fenner[54]:
But they that know the style
Doe smell it by the collar,
And do maintaine it was the braine
Of some yong Oxford scholler.

And first he rails on Cambridge,
And thinkes her to disgrace,
By calling her _Lutetia_,
And throws dirt in her face:
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For all the world must grant,
If Oxford be thy mother,
Then Cambridge is thy aunt.

Then goes he to the town,
And puts it all in starch,
For other rhyme he could not find
To fit the seventh of March:
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For I must vail the bonnet,
And cast the caps at Cambridge
For making song and sonnet.

Thence goes he to their present,
And there he doth purloyne,
For looking in their plate
He nimmes away their coyne:
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For ’tis a dangerous thing
To steal from corporations
The presents of a king.

Next that, my lord vice-chancellor
He brings before the prince,
And in the face of all the court
He makes his horse to wince.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For sure that jest did faile,
Unless you clapt a nettle
Under his horse’s taile.

Then aimes he at our orator,
And at his speech he snarles,
Because he forced a word, and called
The prince “most Jacob-Charles.”
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For he did it compose
That puts you down as much for tongue
As you do him for nose.

Then flies he to our comedies,
And there he doth professe
He saw among our actors
A perfect diocess.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
’Twas no such witty fiction,
For since you leave the vicar out,
You spoile the jurisdiction.

Next that he backes the hobby-horse,
And with a scholler’s grace,
Not able to endure the trott,
He’d bring him to the pase:
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
For you will hardly do it,
Since all the riders in your muse
Could never bring him to it.

Polonia land can tell,
Through which he oft did trace,
And bore a fardell at his back,
He nere went other pace.
But leave him, scholler, leave him,
He learned it of his sire,
And if you put him from his trott
Hee’l lay you in the myre.

Our horse has thrown his rider;
But now he meanes to shame us,
And in the censuring of our play
Conspires with Ignoramus.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
And call ’t not “God knows what,”
Your head was making ballads
When you should mark the plot.

His fantasie, still working,
Finds out another crotchet;
Then runs he to the bishop,
And rides upon his rotchet.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
And take it not in snuff,
For he that weares no picadell
By law may weare a ruffe.

Next that he goes to dinner,
And, like an hardy guest,
When he had cramm’d his belly full
He railes against the feast.
But leave it, scholler, leave it;
For, since you eat his roast,
It argues want of manners
To raile upon the host.

Now listen, masters, listen,
That tax us for our riot,
For here two men went to a ken,
So slender was the diet.
Then leave him, scholler, leave him,
He yieldes himself your debtor,
And next time he’s vice-chancellor
Your table shall be better.

Then goes he to the Regent-house,
And there he sits and sees
How lackeys and subsisers press
And scramble for degrees.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
’Twas much against our mind,
But when the prison doors are ope
Noe thief will stay behind.

Behold, more anger yet:
He threatens us ere long,
When as the king comes back againe,
To make another song.
But leave it, scholler, leave it,
Your weakness you disclose;
For “Bonny Nell” doth plainly tell
Your wit lies all in prose.

Nor can you make the world
Of Cambridge praise to singe,
A mouth so foul no market eare
Will stand to hear it sing.
Then leave it, scholler, leave it,
For yet you cannot say,
The king did go from you in March
And come again in May.

RESPONSIO, &c. PER ⸺ LAKES.

Facta est cantilena,
Sed nescio quo autore;
An fluxerit ex remige,
An ex Fenneri ore.
Sed qui legerunt, contendunt,
Esse hanc tenelli
Oxoniensis nescio cujus
Prolem cerebelli.

Nam primò Cantabrigiam
Convitiis execravit,
Quod vocitat Lutetiam,
Et luto conspurcavit.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Nam istud nihil moror,
Quum hujus academiæ
Oxonia sit soror.

Tunc oppidanos miseros
Horrendo cornu petit,
De quibus dixit, nescio quid,
Et rythmum sic effecit.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Bardos Oxonienses
In canticis non vicimus
Jam Cantabrigienses.

Jam inspicit cratera
Quæ regi dono datur,
Et aurum ibi positum
Subripere conatur.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Nam scelus istud lues,
Si fraudes sodalitia,
Ad crucem cito rues.

Dein pro-cancellarium
Produxit equitantem,
In equum valde agilem
Huc et illuc saltantem:
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Nam tibi vix credetur
Si non sub ejus cauda,
Urtica poneretur.

Tunc evomit sententiam
In ipsum oratorem
Qui dixit Jacobissimum,
Præter Latinum morem.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Orator exit talis
Qui magis pollet lingua
Quam ipse naso vales.

Adibat ad comœdiam
Et cuncta circumspexit,
Actorum diocesin
Completam hic detexit
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Hæc cogitare mente
Non valet jurisdictio
Vicario absente.

Fictitio equo subdidit
Calcaria, sperans fore
Ut eum ire cogeret
Gradu submissiore:
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Hoc non efficietur
Si iste stabularius
Habenis moderetur.

Testis est Polonia,
Quam sæpe is transivit,
Et oneratus sarcina
Eodem gradu ivit.
Tam parce, precor, parcito,
Et credas hoc futurum,
Si Brutum regat Asinus
Gradatim non iturum.

Comœdiam Ignoramus
Eum spectare libet,
Et hujus delicatulo
Structura non arridet.
At parce, precor, parcito,
Tum aliter versatus
In faciendis canticis
Fuisti occupatus.

Tum pergit maledicere
Cicestriensi patri,
Et vestes etiam vellicat
Episcopi barbati.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Et nos tu sales pone,
Ne tanti patris careas
Benedictione.

Tum cibo se ingurgitans
Abunde saginatur,
Et venter cum expletus est,
Danti convitiatur.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Nam illud verum erit,
Quicquid ingrato infecerit
Oxoniensi, perit.

At ecce nos videmur
Tenaces nimis esse,
Gallinam unam quod spectasset
Duos comedisse.
O parce, precor, parcito,
Hæc culpa corrigetur
Cum rursus Cantabrigia
Episcopo regetur.

Sed novo in sacello
Pedissequos aspexit,
Quos nostra Academia
Honoribus erexit.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Nam ipse es expertus,
Effugiunt omnes protinus
Cum carcer est apertus.

At nobis minitatur,
Si rex sit rediturus,
Tunc iste (Phœbo duce) est
Tela resumpturus.
Sed parce, precor, parcito,
Piscator ictus sapit,
Fugatus namque miles iners
Arma nunquam capit.

Et Cantabrigiam non
Lædi hinc speramus,
Ex ore tam spurcidico
Nil damni expectamus.
O parce, ergo, parcito,
Oxonia nunquam dicit,
Cum Martio princeps abiens
In Maio nos revisit.

ADDITAMENTA SUPERIORI CANTICO.

Ingenij amplitudinem
Jam satis ostendisti,
Et eloquentiæ fructus
Abundè protulisti:
Sed parce, tibi, parcito,
Ne omne absumatur,
Ne tandem tibi arido
Nil suavi relinquatur.

Jam satis oppugnasti,
O Polyphemi proles!
Et tanquam taurus gregis
Nos oppugnare soles.
Sed parce, tandem, parcito,
Tuis laudatus eris,
Et nunc inultus tanquam stultus
A nobis dimitteris.

LADY ARABELLA STUART.

The circumstances of the life of this accomplished and persecuted lady,

“From kings descended, and to kings allied,”

are familiar to every reader of biographical history. In Lodge’s Illustrations of British History are some letters which convey an exalted idea of her mental abilities; and the editor has proved, in opposition to the assertion of the authors of the Biographia Britannica, that she was far from deficient in personal beauty.

She was the only child of Charles Stuart, fifth earl of Lennox, (uncle to James the First, and great-grandson to Henry VII.) by Elizabeth, daughter of sir William Cavendish, of Hardwick; was born about the year 1578, and brought up in privacy under the care of her grandmother, the old countess of Lennox, who had for many years resided in England. Her double relation to royalty was equally obnoxious to the jealousy of Elizabeth and the timidity of James, and they secretly dreaded the supposed danger of her leaving a legitimate offspring. The former, therefore, prevented her from marrying Esme Stuart, her kinsman, and heir to the titles and estates of her family, and afterwards imprisoned her for listening to some overtures from the son of the earl of Northumberland: the latter, by obliging her to reject many splendid offers of marriage, unwarily encouraged the hopes of inferior pretenders. Thus circumscribed, she renewed a childish connection with William Seymour, grandson to the earl of Hertford, which was discovered in 1609; when both parties were summoned to appear before the privy council, and received a severe reprimand. This mode of proceeding produced the very consequence which James meant to avoid; for the lady, sensible that her reputation had been wounded by this inquiry, was in a manner forced into a marriage; which becoming publicly known in the course of the next spring, she was committed to close custody in the house of sir Thomas Parry, at Lambeth, and Mr. Seymour to the Tower. In this state of separation, however, they concerted means for an escape, which both effected on the same day, June 3, 1611; and Mr. Seymour got safely to Flanders: but the poor lady was re-taken in Calais road, and imprisoned in the Tower; where the sense of these undeserved oppressions operating too severely on her high spirit, she became a lunatic, and languished in that wretched state, augmented by the horrors of a prison, till her death on the 27th Sept. 1615.[55]

ON THE LADY ARABELLA.

How do I thanke thee, Death, and blesse thy power
That I have past the guard, and scaped the Tower!
And now my _pardon_ is my _epitaph_,
And a small coffin my poore carkasse hath.
For at thy charge both soule and body were
Enlarged at last, secured from hope and feare;
That among saints, this amongst kings is laid,
And what my birth did claim, my death hath paid.

UPON MISTRIS MALLET[56], AN UNHANDSOME GENTLEWOMAN, WHO MADE LOVE UNTO HIM.

Have I renounc’t my faith, or basely sold
Salvation, and my loyalty, for gold?
Have I some forreigne practice undertooke
By poyson, shott, sharp-knife, or sharper booke
To kill my king? have I betrayd the state
To fire and fury, or some newer fate,
Which learned murderers, those grand destinies,
The Jesuites, have nurc’d? if of all these
I guilty am, proceed; I am content
That Mallet take mee for my punishment.
For never sinne was of so high a rate,
But one nights hell with her might expiate.
Although the law with Garnet[57], and the rest,
Dealt farr more mildly; hanging’s but a jest
To this immortall torture. Had shee bin then
In Maryes torrid dayes engend’red, when
Cruelty was witty, and Invention free
Did live by blood, and thrive by crueltye,
Shee would have bin more horrid engines farre
Than fire, or famine, racks, and halters are.
Whether her witt, forme, talke, smile, tire I name,
Each is a stock of tyranny, and shame;
But for her breath, spectatours come not nigh,
That layes about; God blesse the company!
The man, in a beares skin baited to death,
Would chose the doggs much rather then her breath;
One kisse of hers, and eighteene wordes alone
Put downe the _Spanish Inquisition_.
Thrice happy wee (quoth I thinking thereon)
That see no dayes of persecution;
For were it free to kill, this grisly elfe
Wold martyrs make in compass of herselfe:
And were shee not prevented by our prayer,
By this time shee corrupted had the aire.
And am I innocent? and is it true,
That thing (which poet Plinye never knew,
Nor Africk, Nile, nor ever Hackluyts eyes
Descry’d in all his _East, West-voyages_;
That thing, which poets were afrayd to feigne,
For feare her shadowe should infect their braine;
This spouse of Antichrist, and his alone,
Shee’s drest so like the Whore of Babylon;)
Should doate on mee? as if they did contrive
The devill and she, to damne a man alive.
Why doth not _Welcome_ rather purchase her,
And beare about this rare familiar?
Sixe markett dayes, a wake, and a fayre too ’t,
Would save his charges, and the ale to boot.
No tyger’s like her; shee feedes upon a man
Worse than a tygresse or a leopard can.
Let mee go pray, and thinke upon some spell,
At once to bid the devill and her farwell.

HENRY PRINCE OF WALES.

Upon the death of the promising Henry (Nov. 6, 1612), a prince, according to Arthur Wilson[58], as eminent in nobleness as in blood, and who fell not without suspicion of foul play, the poets his cotemporaries, whom he liberally patronised, poured forth by reams their tributary verses.

Corbet, as it has been before observed, pronounced his funeral oration at Oxford.

Nor was this all: while his bones were perishing and his flesh was rottenness, Dr. Daniel Price, his chaplain during his life, continued to commemorate his dissolution by preaching an anniversary sermon. Neither the practice nor its execution was agreeable to Corbet, who, after a triennial repetition, thus attacked the anniversarist.

IN QUENDAM ANNIVERSARIORUM SCRIPTOREM.

Ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros.

VIRG. Æn. 1. 483.

Even soe dead Hector thrice was triumph’d on
The walls of Troy, thrice slain when Fates had done:
So did the barbarous Greekes before their hoast
Torment his ashes and profane his ghost:
As Henryes vault, his peace, his sacred hearse,
Are torne and batter’d by thine Anniverse.
Was ’t not enough Nature and strength were foes,
But thou must yearly murther him in prose?
Or dost thou thinke thy raving phrase can make
A lowder eccho then the Almanake?
Trust mee, November doth more ghastly looke
In Dade and Hopton’s[59] pennyworth then thy booke;
And sadder record their fixt figure beares
Then thy false-printed and ambitious teares.
For were it not for Christmas, which is nigh,
When spice, fruit eaten, and digested pye
Call for waste paper; no man could make shift
How to employ thy writings to his thrift.
Wherefore forbear, for pity or for shame,
And let some richer penne redeeme his fame
From rottennesse. Thou leave him captive; since
So vile a PRICE ne’ere ransom’d such a Prince.

AN ANSWER, BY DR. PRICE[60].

So to dead Hector boys may do disgrace,
That durst not look upon his living face;
So worst of men behind their betters’ back
May stretch mens names and credit on the rack.
Good friend, our general tie to him that’s gone
Should love the man that yearlie doth him moane:
The author’s zeal 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 master’s sacred hearse;
The which he doth with privilege of name,
Whilst others, ’midst their ale, in corners blame.
A pennyworth 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.

IN POETAM EXAUCTORATUM ET EMERITUM.

Nor is it griev’d, grave youth, the memory
Of such a story, such a booke as hee,
That such a copy through the world were read;
_Henry yet lives, though he be buried_.
It could be wish’d that every eye might beare
His eare good witnesse that he still were here;
That sorrowe ruled the yeare, and by that sunne
Each man could tell you how the day had runne:
O ’twere an honest boast, for him could say
I have been busy, and wept out the day
Remembring him. An epitaph would last
Were such a trophee, such a banner placed
Upon his corse as this: _Here a man lyes_
_Was slaine by Henrye’s dart, not Destinie’s_.
Why this were med’cinable, and would heale,
Though the whole languish’d, halfe the commonweale.
But for a _Cobler_ to goe burn his cappe,
And cry, The Prince, the Prince! O dire mishappe!
Or a Geneva-bridegroom, after grace,
To throw his spouse i’ th’ fire; or scratch her face
To the tune of the Lamentation; or delay
His _Friday_ capon till the _Sabbath_ day:
Or an old Popish lady half vow’d dead
To fast away the day in gingerbread:
For him to write such annals; all these things
Do open laughter’s and shutt up griefe’s springs.
Tell me, what juster or more congruous peere
Than Ale, to judge of workes begott of beere?
Wherefore forbeare—or, if thou print the next,
Bring better notes, or take a meaner text.

ON MR. FRANCIS BEAUMONT, THEN NEWLY DEAD.

(The following lines, which have hitherto been omitted in the bishop’s poems, are found in the collected dramas of the

“twin stars that run
Their glorious course round Shakespeare’s honoured sun.”

Beaumont was born 1585, and was buried the ninth of March 1615, in the entrance of St. Bennet’s chapel, Westminster abbey.)

He that hath such acuteness and such wit
As would aske ten good heads to husband it;
He that can write so well, that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:
Beaumont is dead! by whose sole death appears
Wit’s a disease consumes men in few yeares.

WILLIAM LORD HOWARD, OF EFFINGHAM,

the subject of the succeeding poem, was the eldest son of Charles Howard, earl of Nottingham, (lord high admiral of England, and defeater of the Spanish Armada in the reign of Elizabeth, a nobleman of high estimation during greater part of the reign of her successor,) by Catharine, daughter of Henry Carey, lord Hunsdon; celebrated for concealing the ring by which the life of the earl of Essex might have been saved, and upon whose death-bed discovery of the concealment Elizabeth told her, “God may forgive you, but I never can.”

Lord Howard makes no conspicuous figure in the page of history: he was summoned by writ to several parliaments during his father’s life, whom he accompanied on his embassy to the court of Spaine (1604), but died before him 10th Dec. 1615, and was buried at Chelsea.

He married in 1597 Anne, daughter and sole heiress to John lord St. John of Bletsoe, by whom he left one daughter, who became the wife of John lord Mordaunt, afterwards earl of Peterborough.

AN ELEGIE[61] ON THE LATE LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, BARON OF EFFINGHAM.

I did not know thee, lord, nor do I strive
To win access, or grace, with lords alive:
The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can
Move me, nor favour; nor a greater man.
To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent,
From whom no penance warns, nor portion spent;
To these I dedicate as much of me,
As I can spare from my own husbandry:
And till ghosts walk as they were wont to do,
I trade for some, and do these errands too.
But first I do enquire, and am assur’d,
What tryals in their journeys they endur’d;
What certainties of honour and of worth
Their most uncertain life-times have brought forth;
And who so did least hurt of this small store,
He is my patron, dy’d he rich or poor.
First I will know of Fame (after his peace,
When flattery and envy both do cease)
Who rul’d his actions: Reason, or my lord?
Did the whole man rely upon a word,
A badge of title? or, above all chance,
Seem’d he as ancient as his cognizance?
What did he? Acts of mercy, and refrain
Oppression in himself, and in his train?
Was his essential 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 think perjury as lov’d a sin,
Himself forsworn, as if his slave had been?
Did he seek regular pleasures? Was he known
Just husband of one wife, and she his own?
Did he give freely without pause, or doubt,
And read petitions ere they were worn out?
Or should his well-deserving _client_ ask,
Would he bestow a tilting, or a masque
To keep need vertuous? and that done, not fear
What lady damn’d him for his absence there?
Did he attend the court for no man’s fall?
Wore he the ruine of no hospital?
And when he did his rich apparel 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 God’s throne, or on the chair of state?
He that is guilty of no _quæry_ here,
Out-lasts his epitaph, out-lives his heir.
But there is none such, none so little bad;
Who but this negative goodness ever had?
Of such a lord we may expect the birth,
He’s rather in the womb, than on the earth.
And ’twere a crime in such a public 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 eternal home, where now thou art,
Ere thy reproach was ready; or to die,
Ere custom had prepar’d thy calumny.
Eight days have past since thou hast paid thy debt
To sin, and not a libel stirring yet;
Courtiers that scoff by patent, silent sit,
And have no use of slander or of wit;
But (which is monstrous) though against the tyde,
The watermen have neither rayl’d nor ly’d.
Of good or bad there’s no distinction known,
For in thy praise the good and bad are one.
It seems, we all are covetous of fame,
And, hearing what a purchase of good name
Thou lately mad’st, are careful to increase
Our title, by the holding of some lease
From thee our landlord, and for that th’ whole crew
Speak 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 heirs,
Blots out thy name, and fills the space with tears.
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 admiral_.
Let others write for glory or reward,
Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.

LORD MORDAUNT.

The lord Mordaunt to whom this poem is addressed was John fifth baron Mordaunt of Turvey, in the county of Bedford, who was afterwards (in 1628) created earl of Peterborough by king Charles the First. He married Elizabeth, daughter and heir of William baron Howard of Effingham, (son and heir apparent of Charles earl of Nottingham,) by Anne his wife, daughter and heir of John baron St. John of Bletsoe. He was brought up in the Roman Catholic religion, but converted to that of the established church by a disputation at which he was present between a Jesuit and the celebrated Dr. Usher, (afterwards) bishop of Armagh. In 1642 he was general of the ordnance, and colonel of a regiment of foot in the army, raised for the service of the Parliament, commanded by the earl of Essex, and died the same year.

In order to understand the following poem, it will be necessary to remember, that James, in the year 1617, paid a visit to his native country, whither the lord Mordaunt accompanied him; and the ceremony of installing the knights of the garter was consequently deferred from St. George’s day to that of Holyrood.

TO THE LORD MORDANT, UPON HIS RETURNE FROM THE NORTH.

My lord, I doe confesse at the first newes
Of your returne towards home, I did refuse
To visit you, for feare the northerne winde
Had peirc’t into your manners and your minde;
For feare you might want memory to forget
Some arts of Scotland which might haunt you yet.
But when I knew you were, and when I heard
You were at Woodstock seene, well sunn’d and air’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 were out.
Windsor the place; the day was Holy roode;
Saint George my muse: for be it understood,
For all Saint George more early in the yeare
Broke fast and eat a bitt, hee dined here:
And though in Aprill in redd inke he shine,
Know twas September made him redd with wine.
To this good sport rod 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 trodde on, by my place.

Where when I came, I saw the church besett
With tumults, as if all the Brethren mett
To heare some silenc’t teacher of that quarter
Inveigh against the order of the garter:
And justly might the weake it grieve and wrong,
Because the garter prayes in a strange tongue;
And doth retaine traditions yet, of Fraunce,
In an old _Honi soit qui mal y pense_.
Whence learne, you knights that order that have t’ane,
That all, besides the buckle, is profane.
But there was noe such doctrine now at stake,
Noe starv’d precisian 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 together locks
Papists and Puritans, the Pope and Knox:
Which made some wise-ones feare, that love our nation,
This mixture would beget a toleration;
Or that religions should united bee,
When they stay’d service, these the letany.
But noe such hast; this dayes devotion lyes
Not in the hearts of men, but in their eyes;
They that doe see St. George, heare him aright;
For hee loves not to parly, but to fight.
Amongst this audience (my lord) stood I,
Well edified as any that stood by;
And knew how many leggs a knight letts fall,
Betwixt the king, the offering, and his stall:
Aske mee 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 knightes, and what the prebends wore.
All this my neighbors that stood by mee tooke,
Who div’d but to the garment, and the looke;
But I saw more, and though I have their fate
In face and favour, yet I want their pate:
Mee thought I then did those first ages know,
Which brought forth knightes soo arm’d and looking soe,
Who would maintaine their oath, and bind their worde
With these two seales, an altar and a sworde.
Then saw I George new-sainted, when such preists
Wore him not only on, but in their breasts.
Oft did I wish that day, with solemne vow,
O that my country were in danger now!
And twas no treason; who could feare to dye,
When he was sure his rescue was so nigh?

And here I might a just digression make,
Whilst of some foure particular knightes I spake,
To whome 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 aboue the maistery of my pen;
And private fingers may not touch those things
Whose authors princes are, whose parents kings:
Wherefore unburnt I will refraine that fire,
Least, daring such a theame, I should aspire
T’ include my king and prince, and soe rehearse
Names fitter for my prayer then my verse:
“Hee that will speake of princes, let him use
More grace then witt, know God’s aboue his muse.”
Noe more of councell: Harke! the trumpetts sound,
And the grave organ’s with the antheme drown’d
The Church hath said amen to all their rites,
And now the Trojan horse sets loose his knightes;
The triumph moues: O what could added bee,
Save your accesse, to this solemnitye?
Which I expect, and doubt not but to see ’t,
When the kings favour and your worth shall meete.
I thinke the robes would now become you soe,
St. George himselfe could scarce his owne knights know
From the lord Mordant: Pardon mee that preach
A doctrine which king James can only teach;
To whome I leaue you, who alone hath right
To make knightes lords, and then a lord a knight.
Imagine now the sceane lyes in the hall;
(For at high noone we are recusants all)
The church is empty, as the bellyes were
Of the spectators, which had languish’d there:
And now the favorites of the clarke of th’ checke,
Who oft haue yaun’d, and strech’t out many a neck
Twixt noone and morning; the dull feeders on
Fresh patience, and raisins of the sunne,
They, who had liv’d in th’ hall seaven houres at least,
As if twere an arraignment, not a feast;
And look’t soe like the hangings they stood nere,
None could discerne which the true pictures were;
These now shall be refresh’t, while the bold drumme
Strikes up his frollick, through the hall they come.
Here might I end, my lord, and here subscribe
Your honours to his power: But Oh, what bribe,
What feare or mulct can make my muse refraine,
When shee is urg’d of nature and disdaine?
Not all the guard shall hold mee, I must write,
Though they should sweare and lye how they would fight,
If I procede: nay, though the captaine say,
Hold him, or else you shall not eate to day;
Those goodly yeomen shall 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 waiter there stolne, or sett by;
But to compute the valew of the meate,
Which was for glory, not for hunger eate;
Nor did I feare, (stand back) who went before
The presence, or the privy-chamber doore.
And woe is mee, the guard, those men of warre,
Who but two weapons use, beife, and the barre,
Began to gripe mee, knowing not in truth,
That I had sung John Dory in my youth;
Or that I knew the day when I could chaunt
Chevy, and Arthur, and the Seige of Gaunt.
And though these be the vertues which must try
Who are most worthy of their curtesy,
They profited mee nothing: for no notes
Will move them now, they’re deafe in their new coates:
Wherefore on mee afresh they fall, and show
Themselves more active then before, as though
They had some wager lay’d, and did contend
Who should abuse mee furthest at armes end.
One I remember with a grisly 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 seem’d he had two names, for there were writt
On a white canvasse doublett that he wore,
Two capitall letters of a name before;
Letters belike which hee had spew’d and spilt,
When the great bumbard leak’t, or was a tilt.
This Ironside tooke hold, and sodainly
Hurled mee, by judgment of the standers by,
Some twelve foote by the square; takes mee againe,
Out-throwes it halfe a bar; and thus wee twaine
At this hot exercise an hower had spent,
Hee the feirce agent, I the instrument.
My man began to rage, but I cry’d, Peace,
When he is dry or hungry he will cease:
Hold, for the Lords sake, Nicholas, lest they take us,
And use us worse then Hercules us’d Cacus.

And now I breath, my lord, now have I time
To tell the cause, and to confesse the crime:
I was in black; a scholler straite they guest;
Indeed I colour’d for it at the least.
I spake them faire, 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 clark of th’ check to utter sense:
Talk of your emblemes, maisters, and relate
How Æsope hath it, and how Alciate;
The Cock and Pearle, the Dunghill and the Jemme,
This passeth all to talke sence amongst them.
Much more good service was committed yet,
Which I in such a tumult must forget;
But shall I smother that prodigious fitt,
Which pass’d Heons invention, and pure witt?
As this: A nimble knave, but something fatt,
Strikes at my head, and fairly steales my hatt:
Another breakes a jest, (well, Windsor, well,
What will ensue thereof there’s none can tell,
When they spend witt, serve God) yet twas not much,
Although the clamours and applause were such,
As when salt Archy or Garret doth provoke them[62],
And with wide laughter and a cheat-loafe choake them.
What was the jest doe you aske? I dare repeate it,
And put it home before you shall entreat it;
He call’d mee Bloxford-man: confesse I must
’Twas bitter; and it griev’d mee, in a thrust
That most ungratefull word (Bloxford) to heare
From him, whose breath yet stunk of Oxford beere:
But let it passe; for I have now passd throw
Their halberds, and worse weapons, their teeth, too:
And of a worthy officer was invited
To dine; who all their rudeness hath requited:
Where wee had mirth and meat, and a large board
Furnish’t with all the kitchin could afford.
But to conclude, to wipe of from before yee
All this which is noe better then a story;
Had this affront bin done mee by command
Of noble Fenton[63], had their captaines hand
Directed them to this, I should beleive
I had no cause to jeast, but much to greive:
Or had discerning Pembrooke[64] seene this done,
And thought it well bestow’d, I would have run
Where no good man had dwelt, nor learn’d would fly,
Where noe disease would keepe mee company,
Where it should be preferment to endure
To teach a schoole, or else to starve a cure.

But as it stands, the persons and the cause
Consider well, their manners and their lawes,
Tis no affliction to mee, for even thus
Saint Paul hath fought with beasts at Ephesus,
And I at Windsor. Let this comfort then
Rest with all able and deserving men:
Hee that will please the guard, and not provoke
Court-witts, must suite his learning by a cloake:
“For at all feasts and masques the doome hath bin,
“A man thrust out and a gay cloake let in.”

_Quid immerentes hospites vexas canis,_
_Ignavus adversus lupos?_

TO THE PRINCE.

(AFTERWARDS CHARLES THE FIRST.)

Born at Dumferling, November the 19th, 1600; crowned 27th March 1625; beheaded 30th January 1648-9.

(From a Manuscript in Ashmole’s Museum.)

For ever dear, for ever dreaded prince,
You read some verse of mine a little since,
And so pronounced each word and every letter
Your gratious reading made my verse the better:
Since that your highness doth by gifte exceeding
Make what you read the better for your reading,
Let my poor muse thus far your grace importune
To leave to reade my verse, and read my fortune.

A NEW-YEARES GIFT TO MY LORDE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

(Born 28th August 1592; assassinated by Felton, 23d August 1628.)

When I can pay my parents, or my king,
For life, or peace, or any dearer thing;
Then, dearest lord, expect my debt to you
Shall bee as truly paid, as it is due.
But, as no other price or recompence
Serves them, but love, and my obedience;
So nothing payes my lord, but whats above
The reach of hands, ’tis vertue, and my love.
“For, when as goodnesse doth so overflow,
“The conscience bindes not to restore, but owe:”
Requitall were presumption; and you may
Call mee ungratefull, while I strive to pay.
Nor with a morall lesson doe I shift,
Like one that meant to save a better gift;
Like very poore, or counterfeite poore men,
Who, to preserve their turky or their hen,
Doe offer up themselves: No; I have sent
A kind of guift, will last by being spent,
Thankes sterling: far above the bullion rate
Of horses, hangings, jewells, or of plate.
O you that know the choosing of that one,
Know a true diamond from a Bristow stone:
You know, those men alwaies are not the best
In their intent, that lowdest can protest:
But that a prayer from the convocation,
Is better than the commons protestation.
Trust those that at the test their lives will lay,
And know no arts, but to deserve, and pray:
Whilst they, that buy preferment without praying,
Begin with broyles, and finish with betraying.

SIR THOMAS AYLESBURY,

A Londoner born, was second son of William Aylesbury by Anne his wife, daughter of John Poole, esq., and from Westminster School removed to Christ-Church, Oxford, in 1598, where he became a fellow-student with Corbet, and where, on the 9th of June 1605, they took the degree of master of arts together.

Aylesbury, after he had left Oxford, became secretary to Charles Howard, earl of Nottingham, lord high admiral of England, and in 1618, when the latter resigned his office, was continued in the same employment under Howard’s successor, George Villiers, then marquis, and afterwards duke of Buckingham. Under the patronage of Villiers he was appointed one of the masters of the requests, and on the 19th of April 1627 created a baronet, and soon afterwards obtained the office of master of the mint. He retained his places until the breaking out of the civil wars in 1642, and faithfully adhering to the cause of Charles the First, retired with his family, in 1649, after the execution of that unfortunate monarch, to Antwerp in Brabant, and continued there until 1652, when he removed to Breda, where he died in 1657, aged 81, and was buried in the great church.

He was “a learned man, and as great a lover and encourager of learning and learned men, especially of mathematicians, (he being one himself) as any man in his time.”

He had a son, William, who was a man of learning, and tutor to the two sons of his father’s patron, Villiers, but died issueless in Jamaica in the service of Cromwell in the same year with his father: and a daughter, Frances, (sole heir of her father and brother) who, in 1634, became the wife of Edward Hyde, afterwards earl of Clarendon, and was grandmother to queen Mary the Second, and to queen Anne.

I have been the more particular in noticing what relates to sir Thomas Aylesbury, since bishop Corbet’s advancement at court followed, though it trode close upon the heels of, that of Aylesbury, which leads me to presume that the latter was in some degree Corbet’s patron as well as friend and companion.

A LETTER SENT FROM DR. CORBET TO SIR THOMAS AILESBURY, December the 9th, 1618. ON THE OCCASION OF A BLAZING STAR.

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 less, or binde me more;
Hadst thou (dear churle) imparted his return,
I should not with a tardy welcome burn;
But had let loose my joy at him long since,
Which now will seem 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 discern, though not so true
As you at Sion, as long tayl’d as you;
We know already how will stand the case,
With Barnavelt[65] of universal grace,
Though Spain deserve the whole star, if the fall
Be true of Lerma duke and cardinal[66]:
Marry, in France we fear no blood, but wine;
Less danger’s in her sword, than in her vine.
And thus we leave the blazers coming 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 star doth rise,
There is no black for three hours in our eyes;
But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this light
All eyes turn upward, all are zeal and white:
More it is doubtful that this prodigy
Will turn ten schools to one astronomy:
And the analysis we justly fear,
Since every art doth seek for rescue there;
Physicians, lawyers, glovers on the stall,
The shopkeepers speak mathematics 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 taylors yard alike
Take altitudes, and th’ early fidling knaves
On fluits and hoboyes made them Jacobs-staves;
Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive,
And every fist is made a prospective:
Burton to Gunter cants[67], and Burton hears
From Gunter, and th’ exchange both tongue and ears
By carriage: thus doth mired Guy complain,
His waggon in their letters bears Charles-Wain,
Charles-Wain, to which they say the tayl will reach;
And at this distance they both hear and teach.
Now, for the peace of God and men, advise
(Thou that hast where-withal to make us wise)
Thine own rich studies, and deep Harriots mine[68],
In which there is no dross, but all refine:
O tell us what to trust to, lest we wax
All stiff and stupid with his parallax:
Say, shall the old philosophy be true?
Or doth he ride above the moon, think you?
Is he a meteor forced by the sun?
Or a first body from creation?
Hath the same star been object of the wonder
Of our forefathers? Shall the same come under
The sentence of our nephews? Write and send,
Or else this star a quarrel doth portend.

DR. CORBET’S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride or fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song[69],
Upon a holy tide.
I on an ambling nag did jet,
I trust he is not paid for yet;
And spur’d him on each side.

And to Saint Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Nostre Dame,
The man that shews them snaffles:
Where who is apt for to beleeve,
May see our Ladies right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;