AGAINST JEALOUSY. Wretched and foolish jealousy, How cam'st thou thus to enter me? Nor have I yet the narrow mind That others should not warm them at my fire: I wish the sun should shine On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as mine. But under the disguise of love, Thou say'st, thou only cam'st to prove Think'st thou that love is helped by fear? Love's sickness, and his noted want of worth, I ne'er will owe my health to a disease. THE DREAM. Or scorn, or pity, on me take, Love in a subtle dream disguised, Hath both my heart and me surprised, Whom never yet he durst attempt t' awake;11 Nor will he tell me for whose sake He did me the delight, or spite; 11 Gifford corrects, very plausibly, "Whom never yet he durst attempt awake." But leaves me to inquire, Of Sleep again, who was his aid, And Sleep so guilty and afraid, As since he dares not come within my sight. AN EPITAPH ON MASTER VINCENT CORBET.12 I have my piety too, which, could It vent itself but as it would, Would say as much as both have done For I both lost a friend and father, Had wrestled with diseases strong, That though they did possess each limb, A life that knew nor noise nor strife; 12 The father of Bishop Corbet, the poet. Vincent Corbet, who lived to the great age of eighty, and died in 1619, was a man of exemplary character. He lived chiefly at Whitton, in Middlesex, where he became famous for his nurserygrounds, which he cultivated with great skill and success. By these pursuits he amassed a large property, which he bequeathed to his son. At one period Vincent Corbet appears to have assumed the name of Pointer; but whether it descended to him through some branch of his family, and was afterwards relinquished for that of Corbet, is not known. There is an affectionate tribute to his worth amongst the poems of his son. - B. But was, by sweetening so his will, His mind as pure, and neatly kept, And add his actions unto these, His looks would so correct it, when I feel, I'm rather dead than he! Reader, whose life and name did e'er become Nor wants it here through penury or sloth, Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both. 1 AN EPISTLE TO SIR EDWARD SACKVILE, NOW If, Sackvile, all that have the power to do then Less list of proud, hard, or ingrateful men. As they are done, and such returns they find: Not at my prayers, but your sense; which laid To have such do me good, I durst not name. 18 Son of Robert, second Earl of Dorset. He was the Sir Edward Sackvile who, in his youth, was engaged in the savage duel with Lord Bruce, of which he has himself left an account. He afterwards earned the panegyric of Clarendon by his wit and learning. Gifford tells us that this epistle addressed to him by Jonson was the favorite poem of Horne Tooke. He had it by heart, and delighted to quote it on all occasions.-B. The memory delights him more, from whom, Than what, he hath received. Gifts stink from some, They are so long a coming, and so hard; Where any deed is forced, the grace is marred. Or if he did it not to succor me, But by mere chance? for interest? or to free All this corrupts the thanks; less hath he won, ful face, So each, that's done and ta'en, becomes a brace. He neither gives, or does, that doth delay A benefit, or that doth throw't away; No more than he doth thank, that will receive Naught but in corners, and is loath to leave Least air, or print, but flies it: such men would Run from the conscience of it, if they could. As I have seen some infants of the sword |