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When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest
As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne:
A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne.
They are, and have been taught religion: thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne and even they are taught to pray,
With the whole household, and may, every day,
Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

THE SWEET NEGLECT.

FROM THE SILENT WOMAN.

STILL to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,

Though arts hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,

Then all th' adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

ECHO ON NARCISSUS.

FROM CYNTHIA'S REVELLS.

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keepe time with my salt teares; Yet slower, yet, ô faintly gentle springs:

List to the heavy part the musique beares,

Woe weepes out her division, when shee sings.

Droupe hearbs, and flowres;
Fall griefe in showres;

Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still

(Like melting snow upon some craggie hill,)
Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since Natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill.

TO CELIA.

DRINKE to me, onely with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.

The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered bee.

But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it backe to mee:

Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
Not of it selfe, but thee.

HYMNE TO DIANA.

FROM CYNTHIA'S REVELLS.

QUEENE, and huntresse, chaste, and faire,

Now the sunne is laid to sleepe,

Seated, in thy silver chaire,
State in wonted manner keepe:
Hesperus intreats thy light,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare it selfe to interpose;
Cynthias shining orbe was made

Heaven to cleere, when day did close:

Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearle apart,
And thy cristall-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

SONG.

FROM THE POETASTER.

IF I freely may discover,

What would please me in my lover:
I would have her faire, and wittie,
Savouring more of court, then cittie;
A little proud, but full of pittie:
Light, and humorous in her toying,
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying,
Long, but sweet in the enjoying,
Neither too easie, nor too hard:
All extremes I would have bar'd.

Shee should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as fashions;

Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swowning,
Every fit, with change, still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,

Then onely constant when I crave her
'Tis a vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

SONG.

FROM THE FOXE.

COME, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;

Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe :
But if, once, we lose this light,
"Tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toies;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold-spies?
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus remooved, by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale

But the sweet thefts to reveale :

To be taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene.

EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H.

WOULDS'T thou heare what man can say
In a little? Reader, stay.
Under-neath this stone doth lye
As much beautie as could dye:
Which in life did harbour give
To more vertue then doth live.
If, at all, shee had a fault,
Leave it buryed in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,

Th' other let it sleepe with death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Then that it liv'd at all.

Farewell.

TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praysest mee,
For writing better, I must envie thee.

RICHARD CORBET, "wittie Bishop Corbet," was born in the village of Ewell in Surrey, in the year 1582; his father, of whom Ben Jonson spoke in terms of high praise, was "either by taste or trade," a gardener. His son was educated at Westminster, and elected thence a student of Christ Church, Oxford; where he took his degree in 1605, and entered into holy orders. In 1612, he was deputed, as one of the Proctors of the University, to pronounce a funeral oration on the death of Henry Prince of Wales. Having rapidly obtained ecclesiastical promotion, and, by his eloquence and his wit, succeeded in greatly gratifying the humour of James the First, in 1629 he was elected Bishop of Oxford; and in 1632, translated to the see of Norwich. He died in July, 1635. He was distinguished as "the witty Bishop," yet of "no destructive nature, to any who offended him, counting himself plentifully repaired with a jest upon him;" but it must be admitted that he was often more merry than wise; and not unfrequently forgetful of the sacredness of his high office. The records that have been preserved of his pleasant sayings would go near to fill a volume. It appears that he could seldom control his "fun," either with reference to time or place. On one occasion, while his reverence was confirming, and the country people pressing forward to witness the ceremony, he said "beare off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staffe;" on another, while laying hands on a bald man he asked for "some dust," to keep his hand from slipping; and on another, observing before him a man with a large beard, he called to him, "you behind the beard." He would sometimes go with a crony into a wine cellar, put aside his episcopal hood, and say " there layes the doctor," then put off his gowne, and say "there layes the bishop," then turn to his companion, and say " and now, here's to thee !" A ballad singer having once complained to the doctor that he lacked custom, they thereupon exchanged jackets, and the doctor being a handsome man, and having a rare full voice, had soon a great audience, and vended much of the poor man's ware. Yet he is described as having "an admirably grave and venerable aspect," and he undoubtedly possessed

"Much good humour joined to solid sense,
And mirth accompanied with innocence."

The records of his life have preserved nothing that had its origin in littleness of mind, malice, or even ill-nature.

His Poems are full of feeling and humour; but few of them have escaped oblivion. They are of a miscellaneous description - consisting chiefly of elegy, satire and song. His Poetica Stromata were written in his youth, and not designed for publication. The Iter Boreale is a sort of imitation of Horace's Journey to Brundusium, and relates the tour of four university men- - describing the places they visited and the various characters they met on their way. But as with most others of his poems, the subject has lost its interest with the changes in the manners it describes. His Journey into France is however an exception, the satire being more general. His works were first collected and published in 1647; and in an edition of 1672, the editor informs his patron to whom the publication is dedicated, that "the most pious of the clergy have made use of the innocent art of poesy, not only for their pleasant diversion but their most fervent devotion."

We have selected two of the merry Bishop's poems, one because of its pleasant humour and the picture it gives of the times; the other because of its sound practical sense. There is gaiety, lightheartedness, and a flow of animal spirits in all he wrote. He was, it is true, occasionally stimulated by his dislike of Puritanism—the great theme of praise or abuse of the wits of his time, and especially of the time which followed-but Corbet was not the only Churchman who indulged his vein of fancy at the expense of his more sober brethren. It is however more than probable that his compositions, although sportive rather than ill-natured, and never displaying a bitter spirit, were considered even by himself, as in very ill-keeping with the sacred duties of his high office and profession, and that the greater portion of them were not intended to meet the eye of the world. A Bishop-Poet is a rara avis; and it is principally for this reason we have given specimens of his works.

The Fairies Farewell was originally published under a whimsical title: "to be sung or whistled to the tune of the Meddow Brow, by the learned: by the unlearned to the tune of Fortune."

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