Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town,
When in the inn she lay.
Yet all the world knows that’s a fable,
For so good clothes ne’re lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.

No carpenter could by his trade
Gain so much coyn as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff.
Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit,
They may believe old Joseph did it,
’Cause he deserv’d enough.

There is one of the crosses nails,
Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails,
And if he will, may kneel.
Some say ’twas false, ’twas never so,
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.

There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use,
It weighs my weight downright:
But to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in ’t,
And then ’twas very light.

There’s one saint there hath lost his nose;
Another’s head, but not his toes,
His elbow and his thumb.
But when that we had seen the rags
We went to th’ inn and took our nags,
And so away did come.

We came to Paris on the Seine,
’Tis wondrous fair, ’tis nothing clean,
’Tis Europes greatest town.
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.

There many strange things are to see,
The Palace and great Gallery,
The Place Royal doth excel:
The New Bridge, and the Statues there,
At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,
The Steeple bears the bell.

For learning, th’ Universitie;
And for old clothes, the Frippery;
The House the Queen did build.
Saint Innocents, whose earth devours
Dead corps in four and twenty hours,
And there the King was kill’d:

The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street,
The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet,
The Arsenal, no toy.
But if you’ll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the King,
O ’tis a hopeful boy.

He is of all his dukes and peers
Reverenc’d for much wit at ’s years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pyes of clay,
O never king made such!

A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
’Tis known to every one.
The duke of Guise gave him a parret,
And he had twenty cannons for it
For his new galeon.

O that I ere might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian Ruck!
I’de give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise, or Livine,
Or else I had ill luck.

Birds round about his chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand;
’Tis his humility.
And if they do want any thing,
They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.

But now then, for these parts he must
Be enstiled Lewis the Just[70],
Great Henry’s lawful heir;
When to his stile to add more words,
They’d better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by Nature, how to work
In iron with much ease.
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks, and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys:

Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars or Vulcan’s son,
Some few believe his mother.
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolv’d, and so think still,
As much the one as th’ other.

The people, too, dislike the youth,
Alledging reasons, for, in truth,
Mothers should honour’d be:
Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she lov’d his father,
And that’s notoriously.

His queen, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She’s nere like to be mother:
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

Now why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina’s mate;
And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?

’Twere charity for to be known
To love others children as his own,
And why? It is no shame;
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.

JOHN HAMMON.

John Hammon, M.A., to whom the following “Exhortation” is addressed, was instituted to the rectory of Bibbesford and chapel of Bewdley in Worcestershire the 2d of March 1614, on the presentation of sir William Cook. The new zeal with which he was inspired arose most probably from the intrusion of the “Book of Sports,” by James, in 1618[71], in which the king’s pleasure is declared, “that, after the end of divine service, our good people be not disturbed, letted or discouraged from any lawfull recreation; such as dauncing, either men or women; archerie for men, leaping, vaulting, or any other such harmlesse recreation; nor from having of May games, Witson ales, and Morris dances, and the _setting up of Maypoles and other sports therein used_; and that women shall have leave to carry rushes to the church for the decoring of it, according to their old custome.”

AN EXHORTATION TO MR. JOHN HAMMON, MINISTER IN THE PARISH OF BEWDLY,

_For the battering downe of the Vanityes of the Gentiles, which are comprehended in a Maypole_.

Written by a Zealous Brother from the Black-fryers.

The mighty zeale which thou hast new put on,
Neither by prophet nor by prophetts sonne
As yet prevented, doth transport mee so
Beyond my selfe, that, though I ne’re could go
Farr in a verse, and all rithmes have defy’d
Since Hopkins and old Thomas Sternhold dy’de,
(Except it were that little paines I tooke
To please good people in a prayer-booke
That I sett forth, or so) yet must I raise
My spirit for thee, who shall in thy praise
Gird up her loynes, and furiously run
All kinde of feet, save Satans cloven one.
Such is thy zeale, so well dost thou express it,
That, (wer ’t not like a charme,) I’de say, Christ blesse it.
I needs must say ’tis a spirituall thing
To raile against a bishopp, or the king;
Nor are they meane adventures wee have bin in,
About the wearing of the churches linnen;
But these were private quarrells: this doth fall
Within the compass of the generall.
Whether it be a pole painted, and wrought
Farr otherwise, then from the wood ’twas brought,
Whose head the idoll-makers hand doth croppe,
Where a lew’d bird, towring upon the topp,
Lookes like the calfe at Horeb; at whose roots
The unyoak’t youth doth exercise his foote;
Or whether it reserve his boughes, befreinded
By neighb’ring bushes, and by them attended:
How caust thou chuse but seeing it complaine,
That Baalls worship’t in the groves againe?
Tell mee how curst an egging, what a sting
Of lust do their unwildy daunces bring?
The simple wretches say they meane no harme,
They doe not, surely; but their actions warme
Our purer blouds the more: for Sathan thus
Tempts us the more, that are more righteous.
Oft hath a Brother most sincerely gon,
Stifled in prayer and contemplation,
When lighting on the place where such repaire,
He viewes the nimphes, and is quite out in ’s prayer.
Oft hath a Sister, grownded in the truth,
Seeing the jolly carriage of the youth,
Bin tempted to the way that’s broad and bad;
And (wert not for our private pleasures) had
Renounc’t her little ruffe, and goggle eye,
And quitt her selfe of the Fraternity.
What is the mirth, what is the melody,
That setts them in this Gentiles vanity?
When in our sinagogue wee rayle at sinne,
And tell men of the faults which they are in,
With hand and voice so following our theames,
That wee put out the side-men from their dreames.
Sounds not the pulpett, which wee then be-labour,
Better, and holyer, then doth the tabour?
Yet, such is unregenerate mans folly,
Hee loves the wicked noyse, and hates the holy.
Routes and wilde pleasures doe invite temptation,
And this is dangerous for our damnation;
Wee must not move our selves, but, if w’ are mov’d,
Man is but man; and therefore those that lov’d
Still to seeme good, would evermore dispence
With their owne faults, so they gave no offence.
If the times sweete entising, and the blood
That now begins to boyle, have thought it good
To challenge Liberty and Recreation,
Let it be done in holy contemplation:
Brothers and Sisters in the feilds may walke,
Beginning of the Holy Worde to talke,
Of David, and Uriahs lovely wife,
Of Thamar, and her lustfull brothers strife;
Then, underneath the hedge that woos them next,
They may sitt down; and there act out the text.
Nor do wee want, how ere wee live austeere,
In winter Sabbath-nights our lusty cheere;
And though the pastors grace, which oft doth hold
Halfe an howre long, make the provision cold,
Wee can be merry; thinking ’t nere the worse
To mend the matter at the second course.
Chapters are read, and hymnes are sweetly sung,
Joyntly commanded by the nose and tongue;
Then on the Worde wee diversly dilate,
Wrangling indeed for heat of zeale, not hate:
When at the length an unappeased doubt
Feircely comes in, and then the light goes out;
Darkness thus workes our peace, and wee containe
Our fyery spiritts till we see againe.
Till then, no voice is heard, no tongue doth goe,
Except a tender Sister shreike, or so.
Such should be our delights, grave and demure,
Not so abominable, not so impure,
As those thou seek’st to hinder, but I feare
Satan will bee too strong; his kingdome’s here:
Few are the righteous now, nor do I know
How wee shall ere this idoll overthrow;
Since our sincerest patron is deceas’t,
The number of the righteous is decreast.
But wee do hope these times will on, and breed
A faction mighty for us; for indeede
Wee labour all, and every Sister joynes
To have regenerate babes spring from our loynes:
Besides, what many carefully have done,
Getting the unrighteous man, a righteous sonne.
Then stoutly on, let not thy flocke range lewdly
In their old vanity, thou lampe of Bewdly.
One thing I pray thee; do not too much thirst
After Idolatryes last fall; but first
Follow this suite more close, let it not goe
Till it be thine as thou would’st have ’t: for soe
Thy successors, upon the same entayle,
Hereafter, may take up the Whitson-ale.

ANNE, WIFE OF JAMES THE FIRST,

Daughter of Frederick the Second, king of Denmark, died of a dropsy the 2d of March 1619.

On the 18th of November 1618, a comet (as alluded to in a foregoing poem) was seen in Libra, which continued visible till the 16th of December; and the vulgar, who think

Nunquam futilibus excanduit ignibus æther,

considered it indicative of great misfortunes; and the death of the queen which closely followed, the first object of its portentous mission.

“The queen was in her great condition,” says Wilson, “a good woman, not tempted from that height she stood on to embroyl her spirit much with things below her, only giving herself content in her own house with such recreations as might not make time tedious unto her; and though great persons’ actions are often pried into, and made envy’s mark, yet nothing could be fixed upon her that left any great impression, but that she may have engraven upon her monument a character of virtue.”

AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF QUEENE ANNE.

Noe; not a quatch, sad poets; doubt you,
There is not greife enough without you?
Or that it will asswage ill newes,
To say, Shee’s dead, that was your muse?
Joine not with Death to make these times
More grievous then most grievous rimes.

And if ’t be possible, deare eyes,
The famous Universityes,
If bold your eyes bee matches, sleepe;
Or, if you will be loyall, weepe:
For-beare the press, there’s none will looke
Before the mart for a new booke.

Why should you tell the world what witts
Grow at New-parkes, or Campus-pitts?
Or what conceipts youth stumble on,
Taking the ayre towards Trumpington?
Nor you, grave tutours, who doe temper
Your long and short with _que_ and _semper_;
O doe not, when your owne are done,
Make for my ladyes eldest sonne
Verses, which he will turne to prose,
When he shall read what you compose:
Nor, for an epithite that failes,
Bite off your unpoëticke nailes.
Unjust! Why should you in these vaines,
Punish your fingers for your braines?

Know henceforth, that griefes vitall part
Consists in nature, not in art:
And verses that are studied
Mourne for themselves, not for the dead.

Heark, the Queenes epitaph shall bee
Noe other then her pedigree:
For lines in bloud cutt out are stronger
Then lines in marble, and last longer:
And such a verse shall never fade,
That is begotten, and not made.

“Her father, brother, husband, ... kinges;
Royall relations! from her springes
A prince and princesse; and from those
Faire certaintyes, and rich hope growes.”
Here’s poetry shall be secure
While Britaine, Denmarke, Rheine endure:
Enough on earth; what purchase higher,
Save heaven, to perfect her desire?
And as a straying starr intic’t
And governd those wise-men to Christ,
Ev’n soe a herauld-starr this yeare
Did beckon to her to appeare:
A starr which did not to our nation
Portend her death, but her translation:
For when such harbingers are seene,
God crownes a saint, not kills a queene.

VINCENT CORBET,

Who, from causes which I have not conclusively ascertained, assumed the name of Poynter, was one of those by whose experience and information sir Hugh Platt, at a period when the horticultural arts in this country were in their infancy, was enabled to publish his “Garden Of Eden.” The beautiful “Epitaph” of Ben Jonson, and the following “Elegy,” are high testimonials of his amiable and virtuous disposition.

His father’s name I have not learned; but his mother, whose name was Rose, was buried at Twickenham, September the 13th, 1611, and the register of the same parish proves that her son pursued her path the 29th April, 1619.

Among other legacies, he bequeathed to the poor of Twickenham forty shillings, to be paid immediately after his decease; and four loads of charcoal, to be distributed at the discretion of the churchwardens. These bequests are overlooked by Ironside and Lysons, and I am happy in recording the father of bishop Corbet as a benefactor to my native village.

Nescis quâ natale solum dulcedine captos
Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF HIS OWNE FATHER.

Vincent Corbet, farther knowne
By Poynters name, then by his owne,
Here lyes ingaged till the day
Of raising bones, and quickning clay.
Nor wonder, reader, that he hath
Two surnames in his epitaph;
For this one did comprehend
All that two familyes could lend:
And if to know more arts then any
Could multiply one into many,
Here a colony lyes, then,
Both of qualityes and men.
Yeares he liv’d well nigh fourscore;
But count his vertues, he liv’d more;
And number him by doeing good,
He liv’d their age beyond the Flood.
Should wee undertake his story,
Truth would seeme fain’d, and plainesse glory:
Beside, this tablet were too small,
Add to the pillers and the wall.
Yet of this volume much is found,
Written in many a fertill ground;
Where the printer thee affords
Earth for paper, trees for words.
He was Natures factour here,
And legier lay for every sheire;
To supply the ingenious wants
Of some spring-fruites, and forraigne plants.
Simple he was, and wise withall;
His purse nor base, nor prodigall;
Poorer in substance then in freinds;
Future and publicke were his endes;
His conscience, like his dyett, such
As neither tooke nor left too much:
Soe that made lawes were uselesse growne
To him, he needed but his owne.
Did he his neighbours bid, like those
That feast them only to enclose?
Or with their rost meate racke their rents,
And cozen them with their consents?
Noe; the free meetings at his boord
Did but one litterall sence afforde;
Noe close or aker understood,
But only love and neighbourhood.
His alms were such as Paul defines,
Not causes to be said, but signes;
Which alms, by faith, hope, love, laid down,
Laid up what now he wears ... a crown.
Besides his fame, his goods, his life,
He left a greiv’d sonne, and a wife;
Straunge sorrow, not to be beleiv’d,
Whenas the sonne and heire is greiv’d.
Reade then, and mourne, what ere thou art
That doost hope to have a part
In honest epitaphs; least, being dead,
Thy life bee written, and not read.

THE LADY HADDINGTON

Was first wife of John Ramsey, viscount Haddington in Scotland, and daughter of Robert Radcliffe, earl of Sussex. Her marriage was celebrated by Ben Jonson, in a masque presented at court on the Shrove-Tuesday at night (1608)[72]; and here is her monody by Corbet.

She had two sons, Charles and James, and a daughter, Elizabeth, who all died young. Her father died without surviving issue, September 22d, 1629.

Her husband, who was a great favourite with king James, survived her, and was created baron of Kingston upon Thames, and earl of Holderness, 22 Jan. 1620-1. He had a second wife, daughter of sir William Cockayne, alderman of London[73]:

But his first lady, the subject of the present article, was evidently dead before his elevation to the English peerage.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY HADDINGTON, WHO DYED OF THE SMALL POX.

Deare losse, to tell the world I greive were true,
But that were to lament my selfe, not you;
That were to cry out helpe for my affaires,
For which nor publick thought, nor private, cares:
No, when thy fate I publish amongst men,
I should have power, and write with the States pen:
I should in naming thee force publicke teares,
And bid their eyes pay ransome for their cares.
First, thy whole life was a short feast of witt,
And Death th’ attendant which did waite on it:
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though ’twere praise enough (with them whose fame
And vertue’s nothing but an ample name)
That thou wert highly borne, (which no man doubtes)
And so mightst swath base deedes in noble cloutes;
Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud,
And being noble, wast nor foole, nor proud;
And when thy youth was ripe, when now the suite
Of all the longing court was for thy fruit,
How wisely didst thou choose! Foure blessed eyes,
The kings and thine, had taught thee to be wise.
Did not the best of men thee virgin give
Into his handes, by which himselfe did live?
Nor didst thou two yeares after talke of force,
Or, lady-like, make suit for a divorce:
Who, when their owne wilde lust is falsely spent,
Cry out, “My lord, my lord is impotent.”
Nor hast thou in his nuptiall armes enjoy’d
Barren imbraces, but wert girl’d and boy’d:
Twice-pretty-ones thrice worthier were their youth
Might shee but bring them up, that brought them forth:
Shee would have taught them by a thousand straines,
(Her bloud runns in their manners, not their veines)
That glory is a lye; state a grave sport;
And country sicknesse above health at court.
Oh what a want of her loose gallants have,
Since shee hath chang’d her window for a grave;
From whence shee us’d to dart out witt so fast,
And stick them in their coaches as they past!
Who now shall make well-colour’d vice looke pale?
Or a curl’d meteor with her eyes exhale,
And talke him into nothing? Who shall dare
Tell barren braines they dwell in fertill haire?
Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe,
And, by tart similyes, repentance draw
From those, whome preachers had given ore? Even such
Whome sermons could not reach, her arrowes touch.
Hereafter, fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause:
Hee of fourescore, three night capps, and two haires,
Shall marry her of twenty, and get heyres
Which shall be thought his owne; and none shall say
But tis a wondrous blessing, and he may.
Now (which is more then pitty) many a knight,
Which can doe more then quarrell, less then fight,
Shall choose his weapons, ground; draw seconds thither,
Put up his sword, and not be laught at neyther.
Oh thou deform’d unwoeman-like disease,
That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow’st pease,
And leav’st such printes on beauty, that dost come
As clouted shon do on a floore of lome;
Thou that of faces hony-combes dost make,
And of two breasts two cullenders, forsake
Thy deadly trade; thou now art rich, give ore,
And let our curses call thee forth no more.
Or, if thou needs will magnify thy power,
Goe where thou art invoked every houre
Amongst the gamsters, where they name thee thicke
At the last maine, or the last pocky nicke.
Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice,
There thou shalt practice on more then one vice.
There’s wherewithall to entertaine the pox,
There’s more then reason, there’s rime for ’t, the box.
Thou who hast such superfluous store of game,
Why struckst thou one whose ruine is thy shame?
O, thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist;
And, where thy shaft was needfull, there it mist.
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face,
Where thy ill-favour’d kindnesse might adde grace,
That men might say, How beauteous once was shee!
Or, What a peece, ere shee was seaz’d by thee!
Thou shouldst have wrought on some such ladyes mould
That ne’re did love her lord, nor ever could
Untill shee were deform’d, thy tyranny
Were then within the rules of charity.
But upon one whose beauty was above
All sort of art, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfett,
Was to erect a pyramide of jett,
And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell,
And place it where a gentle soule should dwell:
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When twas noe more a body, nor good clay,
But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race,
Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless, faire,
Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are!
Rest in that country, and injoy that ease,
Which thy frayle flesh deny’de, and her disease!

ON THE CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY.

The failure of success in the representation of this play has been detailed in the Life of the Bishop: indeed it seems to have subjected the Oxonians to much ridicule, which the elegant bishop King[74] joined with Corbet in retorting. One of the numerous banters on this occasion is recorded by Wood, and deserves to be preserved:

“At Christ-Church ‘Marriage,’ done before the king,
Lest that those mates should want an offering,
The king himself did offer—What? I pray.
He offer’d twice or thrice to go away.”

ON CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY AT WOODSTOCK.

If wee, at Woodstock, have not pleased those,
Whose clamorous judgments lye in urging noes,
And, for the want of whifflers, have destroy’d
Th’ applause, which wee with vizards hadd enjoy’d,
Wee are not sorry; for such witts as these
Libell our windowes oft’ner then our playes;
Or, if their patience be moov’d, whose lipps
Deserve the knowledge of the proctorships,
Or judge by houses, as their howses goe,
Not caring if their cause be good or noe;
Nor by desert or fortune can be drawne
To credit us, for feare they loose their pawne;
Wee are not greatly sorry; but if any,
Free from the yoake of the ingaged many,
That dare speake truth even when their head stands by,
Or when the seniors spoone is in the pye;
Nor to commend the worthy will forbeare,
Though he of Cambridge, or of Christ-church were,
And not of his owne colledge; and will shame
To wrong the person, for his howse, or name;
If any such be greiv’d, then downe proud spirit;
If not, know, number never conquer’d merit.

THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Of the romantic expedition to Spain of “Baby Charles and Stennie” an account is given by Clarendon, and a more minute narrative by Arthur Wilson in his Life of James. The voyage was conducted with great secrecy, and very few attendants: but it is worthy remark, that Archee “the princes fool-man” was one of the party. Howell, who was at Madrid at the time, says, “Our cousin Archy hath more privilege than any, for he often goes with his fool’s-coat where the _Infanta_ is with her Meninas and ladies of honour, and keeps a blowing and blustering amongst them, and flurts out what he list.” One of his “flurts” at the Spaniards is related in the same page[75].

The poem, as far as it describes the various rumours during the absence of the parties, a period of great consternation, is curious: the report of Buckingham’s “difference with the Cond’ Olivares” rests upon better authority than the then opinion of the poet.

They left the court Feb. 17th, and returned to England the 5th Oct. 1623.

A LETTER TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, BEING WITH THE PRINCE IN SPAINE.

I’ve read of ilands floating and remov’d
In Ovids time, but never heard it prov’d
Till now: that fable, by the prince and you,
By your transporting England, is made true.
Wee are not where wee were; the dog-starr raignes
No cooler in our climate, then in Spaines;
The selfe-same breath, same ayre, same heate, same burning,
Is here, as there; will be, till your returning:
Come, e’re the card be alter’d, lest perhaps
Your stay may make an errour in our mapps;
Lest England should be found, when you shall passe,
A thousand miles more southward then it was.
Oh that you were, my lord, oh that you were
Now in Blackfryers, in a disguis’d haire;
That you were Smith againe, two houres to bee
In Paules next Sunday, at full sea at three;
There you should heare the legend of each day,
The perills of your inne, and of your way;
Your enterprises, accidents, untill
You did arrive at court, and reach Madrill.
There you should heare how the State-grandees flout you,
With their twice-double diligence about you;
How our environ’d prince walkes with a guard
Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr’d;
How not a chaplaine of his owne may stay
When hee would heare a sermon preach’d, or pray.
You would be hungry, having din’d, to heare
The price of victuailes, and the scarcity, there;
As if the prince had ventur’d there his life
To make a famine, not to fetch a wife.
Your eggs (which might be addle too) are deare
As English capons; capons as sheepe, here;
No grasse neither for cattle; for they say
It is not cutt and made, grasse there growes hay:
That ’tis soe seething hott in Spaine, they sweare
They never heard of a raw oyster there:
Your cold meate comes in reaking, and your wine
Is all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine;
Item, your pullets are distinguish’t there
Into foure quarters, as wee carve the yeare,
And are a weeke a wasting: Munday noone
A wing; at supper something with a spoone;
Tuesday a legg, and soe forth; Sunday more,
The liver and a gizard betweene foure:
And for your mutton, in the best houshoulder
’Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder.
Lord! how our stomackes come to us againe,
When wee conceive what snatching is in Spaine!
I, whilst I write, and doe the newes repeate,
Am forc’t to call for breakfast in, and eate:
And doe you wonder at the dearth the while?
The flouds that make it run in th’ middle ile,
Poets of Paules, those of duke Humfryes messe,
That feede on nought but graves and emptinesse.
But heark you, noble sir, in one crosse weeke
My lord hath lost a thowsand pound at gleeke;
And though they doe allow but little meate,
They are content your losses should be great.
False, on my deanery! falser then your fare is;
Or then your difference with _Cond’ de Olivares_,
Which was reported strongly for one tyde,
But, after six houres floating, ebb’d and dyde.
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 soe many miles, soe many lyes:
If for a good event the Heav’ns doe please
Mens tongues should become rougher then the seas,
And that th’ expence of paper shall be such,
First written, then translated out of Dutch:
Corantoes, diets, packets, newes, more newes,
Which soe much innocent whitenesse doth abuse;
If first the Belgicke[76] pismire must be seene,
Before the Spanish lady be our queene;
With such successe, and such an end at last,
All’s wellcome, pleasant, gratefull, that is past.
And such an end wee pray that you should see,
A type of that which mother Zebedee
Wisht for her sonnes in heav’n; the prince and you
At either hand of James, (you need not sue)
Hee on the right, you on the left, the king
Safe in the mids’t, you both invironing.
Then shall I tell my lord, his word and band
Are forfeit, till I kisse the princes hand;
Then shall I tell the duke, your royall friend
Gave all the other honours, this you earn’d;
This you have wrought for; this you hammer’d 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 mee:
Who, in an humble distance, claime a share
In all your greatnesse, what soe ere you are.

RICHARD, THE THIRD EARL OF DORSET,

Is described by his wife, the celebrated lady Anne Clifford, daughter of George earl of Cumberland, in the manuscript memoirs of her life, as a man “in his own nature of a just mind, of a sweet disposition, and very valiant in his own person. He had a great advantage in his breeding, by the wisdom and devotion of his grandfather, Thomas Sackville, earl of Dorset, and lord high treasurer of England, who was then held one of the wisest of that time; by which means he was so good a scholar in all manner of learning, that, in his youth, when he was at the university, there was none of the young nobility then students there that excelled him. He was also a good patriot to his country, and generally well beloved in it; much esteemed in all the parliaments that sat in his time, and so great a lover of scholars and soldiers, as that, with an excessive bounty towards them, or indeed any of worth that were in distress, he did much diminish his estate; and also with excessive prodigality in house-keeping, and other noble ways at court, as tilting, masking, and the like; prince Henry being then alive, who was much addicted to those noble exercises, and of whom he was much beloved.” He died at the age of 35, March 28th, 1624.

I should be very unwilling to deprive Corbet of the praise due to a poem of so much intrinsic merit; but as the following epitaph is printed among the poems of his contemporary, King, bishop of Chichester, and again attributed to the latter in MS. Ashmole, A 35, Corbet’s claim to the composition of it is rendered very disputable.

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 air, and ample as his merit:
A soul refin’d, no proud forgetting lord,
But mindful 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
Than practice: 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 days.
He that is warn’d of this, and shall forbear
To vent a sigh for him, or shed a tear,
May he live long scorn’d, and unpitied fall,
And want a mourner at his funeral!

TO THE NEW-BORNE PRINCE, AFTERWARDS CHARLES II.

(Born May 29th[77], 1630; died 6th of February, 1684-5.)

UPON THE APPARITION OF A STARR, AND THE FOLLOWING ECCLYPSE.

Was heav’ne afray’d to be out-done on earth
When thou wert borne, great prince, that it brought forth
Another light to helpe the aged sunn,
Lest by thy luster he might be out-shone?
Or were th’ obsequious starres so joy’d to view
Thee, that they thought their countlesse eyes too few
For such an object; and would needes create
A better influence to attend thy state?
Or would the Fates thereby shew to the earth
A Cæsars birth, as once a Cæsars death?
And was ’t that newes that made pale Cynthia run
In so great hast to intercept the sunn;
And, enviously, so shee might gaine thy sight,
Would darken him from whome shee had her light?
Mysterious prodigies yet sure they bee,
Prognosticks of a rare prosperity:
For, can thy life promise lesse good to men,
Whose birth was th’ envy, and the care of heav’ne?

ON THE BIRTH OF THE YOUNG PRINCE CHARLES.

When private men gett sonnes they get a spoone[78],
Without ecclypse, or any starr at noone:
When kings gett sonnes, they get withall supplyes
And succours, farr beyond all subsedyes.
Wellcome, Gods loane! thou tribute to the State,
Thou mony newly coyn’d, thou fleete of plate!
Thrice happy childe! whome God thy father sent
To make him rich without a parliament!

VINCENT CORBET,

The only son of the poet, was born (if the authority of a manuscript in the Harleian collection may be relied upon, in which this pathetic address appears,) on the 10th of November, 1627. From the following injunction in the bishop’s will[79], it seems he was educated at one of the universities: “I commit and commend the nurture and maintenance of my sonne and daughter unto the faythfull and loving care of my mother-in-law, declaring my intent, &c., that my sonne be placed at Oxford or Cambridge, where I require him, upon my blessing, to apply himself to his booke studiously and industriously.”

In 1648 he administered to the will[80] of his grandmother Anne Hutton; and of the further circumstances of his life I am ignorant.

TO HIS SON, VINCENT CORBET,

On his BIRTH-DAY, November 10, 1630, being then Three Years old.

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 undo 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.
I wish thee all thy mothers graces,
Thy fathers fortunes, and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court,
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee, not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And when thy soul and body part,
As innocent as now thou art[81].

AN EPITAPH ON DR. DONNE, DEAN OF PAULS.

Born in 1573; died March 31, 1631.

He that would write an epitaph for thee,
And do 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 hurl down
Enough to keep the gallants of the town;
He must have learning plenty, both the laws
Civil and common, to judge any cause;
Divinity great store, above the rest,
Not of the last edition, but the best.
He must have language, travel, all the arts,
Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts:
He must have friends the highest, able to do,
Such as Mecænas and Augustus too.
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an epitaph for thee,
He must be dead first; let ’t alone for me.

CERTAIN FEW WOORDES SPOKEN CONCERNINGE ONE BENET CORBETT AFTER HER DECEASE.

She died October the 2d, Anno 1634.

(From MS. Harl. No. 464.)

Here, or not many feet from hence,
The virtue lies call’d Patience.
Sickness and Death did do her honour
By loosing paine and feare upon her.
Tis true they forst her to a grave,
That’s all the triumph that they have....
A silly one.... Retreat o’er night
Proves conquest in the morning-fight:
She will rise up against them both....
All sleep, believe it, is not sloth.
And, thou that read’st her elegie,
Take something of her historie:
She had one husband and one sonne;
Ask who they were, and then have doone.

ITER BOREALE

Seems a sort of imitation of Horace’s Brundusian journey. Davenant has “a journey into Worcestershire” (page 215. fol. edit.) in a similar vein, says Headley. If the popularity of this poem may be estimated by the frequency of manuscript copies in the public libraries, we may conclude it was valued very highly, as the transcripts of it are very numerous.

Misled by one of these, I considered this poem, the longest and most celebrated of bishop Corbet’s productions, to have been written in 1625: subsequent examination has induced me to place the date of its composition considerably earlier: the reasons on which this opinion is grounded, will be detailed in the following analysis of the Tour.

Our author commences his journey from Oxford in a company consisting of four persons, two of whom then were, and two of whom wished to be, doctors: but there is nothing in the course of the tour to show us which of the classes he belonged to, unless we are to suppose, from the shortness of cash which discovers itself before the termination of his adventures, that he was rather one of those who had wealth in expectancy than in possession.

[Sidenote: 30]

[Sidenote: 12]

They set off on the 10th of August, and, long as the days are about that period, had a good chance of sharpening their appetites by their first half-day’s ride, thirty miles before dinner, when they sat down to dine with Dr. Christopher Middleton, at his rectory of Ashton on the Wall in Northamptonshire, about eight miles north of Banbury; where we learn that their entertainment was better than the looks of their host, whom they left in the evening, and rode to Flore, about twelve miles north-east, and took up their lodgings for the night.

At Flore they were entertained by a country surgeon, or (in the vulgar phrase) bone-setter, the tenant of Dr. Leonard Hutton, the rector of Flore and dean of Christ-Church, who fed them upon venison.

[Sidenote: 5]

The third morning they set off for Daventry, about five miles. Here it happened to be the market- and lecture-day: and after having washed down the dust which their throats had acquired in the ride, one of them was summoned by the serjeant at mace to deliver the lecture; for which they were all rewarded with thanks and wine.

[Sidenote: 16]

[Sidenote: 13]

The fourth morning they rode to Lutterworth in Leicestershire, about sixteen miles. This was once the benefice of Wickliffe, the father of English reformers; and here the tourist very properly remarks on the double injustice done to that venerable character, first by the Papists in burning his body, and afterwards by the Puritans in destroying the sacred memorial of the interment of his ashes. At Lutterworth they were met by a parson, who though well-beneficed was better-mannered, and was their guide to his dwelling within a mile of Leicester. A note on the older editions of Corbet calls this gentleman the Parson of Heathcot: but there is no place of the name of Heathcot in that neighbourhood; and as, by comparison with other parts of the tour in which miles are mentioned, one mile will be invariably found to signify one and a half at the least; and as less than two reputed miles is accounted only one mile in the distance of places, I presume it was Ayleston, and not Heathcot, where the party rested, and were regaled with stale beer. At length they arrived at Leicester, thirteen miles north of Lutterworth, where, passing over six steeples and two hospitals, (“one hospital twice told,”) which he refers to the eye of Camden, he censures the ignorance of the alms-man, who, notwithstanding it was written on the walls that Henry of Grisemont laid the foundation, told them it was John of Gaunt. Henry Plantagenet, earl of Lancaster, was the first founder of the hospital in the Newark at Leicester in the year 1330, which was considerably enlarged and improved, and converted into a college by his son Henry, the good duke of Lancaster, in 1355; but there is a more general sense in which the word Founder is used, namely, that in which it is extended to all those who inherit, either by descent or by purchase, the patronage under the original founder. And in this sense it may be applied to John of Gaunt, the second duke of Lancaster, who married his near kinswoman the heiress of the former duke, and perfected both in buildings and endowments what the others had commenced. The other hospital alluded to, is that founded by William Wigston, merchant of the Staple, about 1520.

The tourist next observes on the extortion of the innkeeper, who, reckoning by the number of his guests rather than the goodness of his provision, charged them seven shillings and sixpence for bread and beer; but, after a kindly caution to the publican to forbear such cozenage upon Divines in future, lest they should be suspected of drinking as freely as he charges them, turns from a subject so unworthy of his Pegasus in disgust, and inquires if this be not the burial-place of Richard the Third; and, finding that there is no memorial for him, moralizes upon the neglected state in which he lies, as the eventual fate of all greatness: then from Richard proceeds to Wolsey, who was also buried at Leicester, and produces similar reflections; and from Wolsey, to William the ostler of the inn, who outdoes the company in years as well as drink, and calls them to horse as imperiously as if he had a warrant from the earl of Nottingham.

The earl of Nottingham here glanced at was Charles lord Howard of Effingham, lord high admiral of England under queen Elizabeth and king James the First. He died in 1624.

[Sidenote: 25]

From Leicester to Nottingham (twenty-five miles) the travellers pass without noticing any thing on their way, until approaching the latter place they cross the Trent, pray to St. Andrew as they ride up hill, into the town, and observe that the people burrow, like conies, in caverns, from whence the smoke ascends at the feet of the woman who stands on the surface watching, down the chimney, the cooking of her dinner. The part of the town at which they enter is described as the Rocky Parish, higher than the rest; and the church of St. Mary, as embracing her Baby in her arms. From hence they proceed to the Castle, which is described as a ruin, with two statues of giants at the gates, whom the tourist severely censures for their negligence in permitting their charge to come to ruin, and reproaches them with the fidelity of the giants at Guildhall and Holmeby, who had carefully kept the buildings committed to their charge when the founders were dead. The poet might still compliment the giants at Guildhall; but of Holmeby (Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, built by queen Elizabeth’s lord chancellor, sir Christopher Hatton,) not one stone remains upon another: nay, the very memory of the giants might have perished but for the Iter Boreale.

The travellers then go to dinner at the Bull’s Head, where the archbishop of York had been before them, and where their discontent with bed and diet was answered by a reference to the satisfaction which _he_ had received; and where the aged landlord, formerly an ostler, is noticed as a rare example to those who have an itch for gold.

[Sidenote: 20]

Their next stage was to Newark, (about twenty miles, or, according to the reckoning of the poet, twelve), which is spoken of as no journey, but only a walk; and the banks of the Trent as so fertile and beautiful, that the English river takes away the palm from the celebrated Meander. The pleasure of this part of their journey was not diminished by their reception at Newark, where they met with a friend, out of respect to whom the town united as a family to give the travellers a hearty welcome; and even the landlord of one inn did not repine that they had passed his house to go to another, and the landlord of the inn where they rested was more solicitous of their approbation than his own profit. The very beggars rather prayed for their friend than begged of his guests, and the Puritans were willing to “let the organs play,” if the visitors would tarry.

From Newark they saw Bever (Belvoir) and Lincoln, and would fain have gone there but for the limitation on their purse and horses. At three o’clock they set off, with twenty (thirty) miles to ride, (probably to Melton Mowbray); and having neither guide, nor horse of speed, after losing their way, two hours after sun-set blundered upon a village, from whence they obtained a guide to Loughborough. From thence they set off next morning for Bosworth, (eighteen miles,) but in their way thither are lost in Charley Forest, and ask their way from the travellers they meet about the coal-mines at Coalorton, without receiving an answer; when William, their attendant, seeing a man approach, imagines himself to be in Fairyland. But the party are agreeably surprised by finding him one of the keepers of the forest, who conducts them within view of Bosworth.

At Bosworth they meet with far better treatment than the appearance of the place had promised; and, when their host there, who was their guide the next morning, brought them near to the field on which the battle of Bosworth was fought, are greatly amused by his romantic description of the battle. The guide seems to leave them at Nuneaton in Warwickshire, six miles (about nine) from Bosworth; from whence they proceed to Coventry, nine miles; and from thence, having scarcely had time to dine, depart for Kenilworth, five miles, where they are offended by the indecency of an aged parson, who attended the servant of the lord Leicester, it is presumed, to show them the Castle. The Castle of Kenilworth was once the splendid residence of Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, one of the favourites of queen Elizabeth, and on his death, in 1588, passed to his son, Robert Dudley, who used the title of earl of Leicester,—but by a decree of the Star-Chamber was declared to be illegitimate, and from disgust at that sentence retired into Italy, under a license for three years; and being summoned by the privy-council, at the instigation of his enemies, to return into England, and refusing to obey the summons, the Castle of Kenilworth was, for his contumacy, seized by the Crown under the statute of Fugitives; and Henry prince of Wales, in the year 1611, purchased a release of the inheritance of it from sir Robert Dudley, who was to have the constableship of the Castle, under prince Henry, for life. It does not appear, however, that sir Robert Dudley resided at Kenilworth afterwards: he probably had little regard for a place of which he had been compelled to relinquish the inheritance. This may account for the neglected state in which it was found by our poet and his companions.

From Kenilworth they proceed to Warwick, three (five) miles, noticing in their way the Cave of the celebrated hero of English romance, Guy earl of Warwick, as also his Pillar: and at Warwick we have a humorous description of the landlady of the inn. From the inn they proceed to the Castle, where they are received by “the lord of all this frame, the honourable Chancellor,” whose politeness and elegance of manners receive favourable notice. Sir Fulk Greville obtained a grant of Warwick Castle from king James the First, in the second year of his reign, (1604,) and was about the same time appointed chancellor of the exchequer; and resigned his office of chancellor, on being elevated to the peerage by the title of lord Brooke, 19th of January, 1620-21. It may be observed, that the author of the Iter notices him as an honourable chancellor, not as noble lord; which he certainly would have done if the Iter had not been of an earlier date than 1621.

With sir Fulk Greville they found a prelate of the church, an archdeacon, whom a note in the old editions calls archdeacon Burton. This, I presume, was Samuel Burton, A. M. of Christ-Church, Oxford, who paid first-fruits for the archdeaconry of Gloucester, in the cathedral of Gloucester, the 9th of May, 1607, and died the 14th of June, 1634, and was buried at Dry-Drayton in Gloucestershire. He is described as sufficiently corpulent to deserve the displeasure of the Puritans, whom our author never loses an opportunity of lashing.

From Warwick they arrive at Flore, (about twenty-one miles,) having been able to make both ends (of their purse) meet; and, after staying there four days, arrive at Banbury on St. Bartholomew’s day, (24th of August,) desirous to see what sport the saint would produce there. At this place (where they rested at the sign of the Altar-Stone) the tourist finds the altar converted into an inn, and, judging by the sign, lodged in a chapel, but, by the wine, in a bankrupt tavern; and yet, by the coffins converted into horse-troughs, a church. But though you may judge, by what is found at the inn, that the church is full of monuments, you will be disappointed; for there was not an inscription in the church except the names of the last year’s churchwardens,—with buckets and cobwebs hanging, instead of painted saints, in the windows. In short, the town seems to have been a strange collection of sectaries differing from each other.

From hence he returns to Oxford, twenty-two miles, with as little coin in his purse as sir Walter Raleigh brought from his unsuccessful expedition to Guiana in 1618; between which period and 1621 it is clear the poem was written.

ITER BOREALE.