Who either want the grace of wit, or have
Untoward arguments: like him that gave
Life to the flea, or who without a guest
Would prove that famine was the only feast;
Self tyrants, who their braines doubly torment,
Both for their matter and their ornament.
If these do stutter sometimes, and confesse
That they are tired, we could expect no lesse.
But when my matter is prepared and fit,
When nothing's wanting but an equal wit,
I need no Muse's help to ayde me on,
Since that my subject is my Helicon.

And such are you: O give me leave, dear sir, (He that is thankful is no flatterer)

To speak full truth: wherever I find worth,
I shew I have it if I set it forth:

You read yourself in these; here you may see
A ruder draft of Corbet's infancy.

For I professe, if ever I had thought
Needed not blush if publish'd, were there ought
Which was call'd mine durst beare a critic's view,
I was the instrument, but the author you.
I need not tell you of our health, which here
Must be presum'd, nor yet shall our good cheare
Swell up my paper, as it has done me,
Or as the mayor's feast does Stowe's history:
Without an early bell to make us rise,
Health calls us up and novelty; our eyes
Have divers objects still on the same ground,
As if the Earth had each night walk'd her round
To bring her best things hither: 't is a place
Not more the pride of shires then the disgrace,
Which I'de not leave, had I my dean to boot,
For the large offers of the cloven-foot

Robert Gomersall was entered of Christ-Church, Oxford, in 1614, at the age of fourteen, where, in 1621, he proceeded M. A. In 1625 he took refuge from the plague at Flore in Northamptonshire, of which the editor of the Biographia Dramatica erroneously supposed he was rector. He was afterwards vicar of Thorncombe in Devonshire, and died in 1646. G.

Unto our Saviour, but you not being here
'T is to me, though a rare one, but a shire;
A place of good earth, if compared with worse,
Which hath a lesser part in Adam's curse:
Or, for to draw a simile from the High'st,
"T is like unto salvation without Christ,
A fairly situate prison: when again
Shall I enjoy that friendship, and that braine?
When shall I once more hear, in a few words,
What all the learning of past times affords?
Austin epitomiz'd, and him that can
To make him clear contract Tertullian.

But I detain you from them: sir, adieu !
You read their works, but let me study you.

ON DR. CORBET'S MARRIAGE.
(FROM WIT RESTORED, 8vo. 1658.)
COME all yee Muses and rejoice
At your Apolloe's happy choice;
Phoebus has conquer'd Cupid's charme;
Fair Daphne flys into his arm.
If Daphne be a tree, then mark,
Apollo is become the barke.
If Daphne be a branch of bay,
He weares her for a crowne to day:
O happy bridegroom! which dost wed
Thyself unto a virgin's bed.

Let thy love burne with hot desire,
She lacks no oil to feed the fire.
You know not poore Pigmalion's lot,
Nor have you a mere idol got.
You no Ixion, you no proud
Juno makes embrace a cloud.
Looke how pure Diana's skin
Appeares as it is shadow'd in

A chrystal streame; or look what grace
Shines in fair Venus' lovely face,
Whilst she Adonis courts and woos;
Such beauties, yea and more than those,
Sparkle in her; see but her soul,
And you will judge those beauties foul.
Her rarest beauty is within,

She 's fairest where she is not seen;
Now her perfection's character
You have approv'd, and chosen her.

O precious! she at this wedding
The jewel weares-the marriage ring.
Her understanding 's deep: like the
Venetian duke, you wed the sea;
A sea deep, bottomless, profound,
And which none but yourself may sound.

Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart; Your reason chose, and not your heart; You knew her little, and when her Apron was but a muckender, When that same coral which doth deck Her lips she wore about her neck: You courted her, you woo'd her, not Out of a window, she was got And born your wife; it may be said Her cradle was her marriage-bed. The ring, too, was layd up for it Untill her finger was growne fit: You once gave her to play withal A babie, and I hope you shall This day your ancient gift renew, So she will do the same for you: In virgin wax imprint, upon Her breast, your own impression; You may (there is no treason in 't) Coine sterling, now you have a mint. You are now stronger than before, Your side hath in it one ribb more. Before she was akin to me

Only in soul and amity;

But now we are, since she's your bride, In soul and body both allyde:

'T is this has made me less to do,

And I in one can honour two.
This match a riddle may be styled,
Two mothers now have but one child;
Yet need we not a Solomon,
Each mother here enjoyes her own.

Many there are I know have tried
To make her their own lovely bride;
But it is Alexander's lot

To cut in twaine the Gordian knot:
. Claudia, to prove that she was chast,
Tyed but a girdle to her wast,
And drew a ship to Rome by land:
But now the world may understand
Here is a Claudia too; fair bride,
Thy spotlesse innocence is tried;
None but thy girdle could have led
Our Corbet to a marriage bed.

Come, all ye Muses, and rejoice
At this your nursling's happy choice:
Come, Flora, strew the bridemaid's bed,
And with a garland crowne her head;
Or if thy flowers be to seek,
Come gather roses at her cheek.

Come, Hymen, light thy torches, let, Thy bed with tapers be beset, And if there be no fire by, Come light thy taper at her eye;

In that bright eye there dwells a starre, And wise men by it guided are.

In those delicious eyes there be Two little balls of ivory:

How happy is he then that may
With these two dainty balls goe play.
Let not a teare drop from that eye,
Unlesse for very joy to cry.
O let your joy continue! may
A whole age be your wedding-day!
O happy virgin! is it true

That your deare spouse embraceth you?
Then you from Heaven are not farre,
But sure in Abraham's bosom are.

Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyce At your Apollo's happy choice.

VERSES IN HONOUR OF BISHOP CORBET,

FOUND IN A BLANK LEAF of his pPOEMS IN MS.

Ir flowing wit, if verses writ with ease,
If learning void of pedantry can please;
If much good-humour joined to solid sense,
And mirth accompanied with innocence,
Can give a poet a just right to fame,
Then Corbet may immortal honours claim;
For he these virtues had, and in his lines
Poetic and heroic spirit shines;
Though bright yet solid, pleasant but not rude,
With wit and wisdom equally endued.
Be silent, Muse, thy praises are too faint,
Thou want'st a power this prodigy to paint,
At once a poet, prelate, and a saint.

J. C.

UPON MY GOOD LORD THE BISHOP OF NORWICHE,

RICHARD CORBET,

WHO DYED JULY 28, 1635, AND LYES BURIED IN HIS

CATHEDRAL CHURCHE.

(BY MR. JOHN TAYLOR OF NORWICH: FROM THE CABINET, published THERE IN 1795.)

YE rural bardes, who haunte the budding groves,
Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves,
And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn vale
Melt in sweet euloge to the nightingale ;
Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy Muse might raise
Aires not earth-born to suit my raven's praise.

Raven he was, yet was no gloomie fowle,
Merrie at hearte, though innocente of soule;
Where'er he perkt, the birds that came anighe
Constrayned caught the humour of his eye:
Under that shade no spights and wrongs were spred,
Care came not nigh with his uncomlie head.
Somewhile the thicke embranching trees amonge,
Where Isis doth his waters leade alonge,
Kissinge with modeste lippe the holie soyle,
Reflecting backe each hallowed grove the while;
Here did my raven trie his dulcive note,
Charming old Science with his mellow throat.
Sometimes with scholiasts deep in anciente lore,
Through learning's long defyles he would explore
Then with keene wit untie the perplext knot
Of Aristotle or the cunning Scot;

Anon loud laughter shook the arched ball,
For mirth stood redy at his potente call.

Oxforde, thou couldst not binde his outspred wing,
My raven flew where bade his princelye kinge;
Norwiche must honours give he did not crave,
Norwiche must lend his palace and his grave:
And that kiude hearte which gave such vertue birth
Must here be shrouded in the greedie earth.
Ofte hath thy humble lay-clerke led along,
When thou wert by, the eve or matin song;
And oftimes rounde thy marble shall he strole,
To chaunte sad requiems to thy soothed soul;—
Sleep on, till Gabriel's trump shall breake thy sleep,
And thou and I one heavenlie holiday shall keep.

WHEN

BISHOP OF LONDON.

WHEN I past Paul's, and travell'd in that walke
Where all our Britaine-sinners sweare and
talk';

bald 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 vertue 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 grieved friends 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 she 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 easy dust
Shall rise at first; they would not though they must.

'Saint Paul's cathedral was in Corbet's time the resort of the idle and profligate of all classes. VOL. V.

Nor needs the chancellor boast, whose pyramis
Above the host and altar reared is2;
For though thy body fill a viler roome,
Thou shalt not change deedes with him for his

[tombe.

SPECTATISSIMO, PUNCTISQUE OMNIBUS DIGNISSIMO, THOMÆ CORIATO DE ODCOMBE,

PEREGRINANTI,

PEDESTRIS ORDINIS, EQUESTRISQUÈ FÀMÆ

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. S.

The Latin lines have been omitted in the former impressions of bishop Corbet's poems. G.

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 eadem vestigia tentat, opinor
Excoriatus erit, ni Coriatus eat.

2 This was not the first censure of sir Christopher Hatton's extravagant monument; as, according to Stow, some poet had before complained on the part of Sydney and Walsingham, that

Philip and Francis have no tombe,

For great Christopher takes all the room. G:

IN LIBRUM SUUM.

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

ΤΟ

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 show
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 burden far more grievous than the weight
Of wine or sleepe; 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 terrour 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', 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 IATINE 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 MR. GILCHRIST'S POSSESSION.)

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

3" Corgate's Crudities hastily gobbled up in five months travels in France, Savoy, Italy, Rhetia, Helvetia, some parts of High Germany, and the Netherlands." 4to. 1611. Re-printed in 3 vols. Svo. 1776. G.

* Quia valde lutosa est Cantabrigia.
Ludus per spatium 6 horarum infra.

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 would give more than be.

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

But the pure house of Emanuel'
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 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' on a nag,
Whose coat was blue 10, 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 et ecce venit rex.