Part 3

Come all yee Muses and rejoice At your Apolloe’s happy choice; Phœbus 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 shee’s your bride, In soul and body both allyde: ’Tis 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 nurslings 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 Poems in MS.

If 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 sweete 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 learnings 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 hall, For mirth stood redy at his potente call.

Oxforde, thou couldst not binde his outspred wing, My raven flew where bade his princelye king; Norwiche must honours give he did not crave, Norwiche must lend his palace and his grave: And that kinde 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 break thy sleep, And thou and I one heavenlie holiday shall keep.

Bp. Corbet’s Poems.

DR. THOMAS RAVIS.

In the following tribute to the memory of a fellow-collegian, and predecessor in the deanery of Christ Church, it will not be too much to conjecture that Corbet was urged by gratitude for kindness experienced while the latter was young. The “Elegie” was evidently written immediately upon the interment of its subject, as towards its conclusion he complains that no tomb was raised over his remains; a complaint which was soon after obviated, when a fair monument was erected, bearing the following inscription, which contains all that is necessary to be told here of the circumstances of his life and character:

“MEMORIÆ SACRUM.

Thomas Ravis, claris natalibus Mauldenæ in Suthreia natus, Regius Alumnus in Schola Westmonasteriensi educatus, in Academiam Oxoniensem adscitus, omnes academicos honores consequutus, et magistratibus perfunctus, Decanus Ecclesiæ Christi ibidem constitutus, et bis Academiæ Pro-Cancellarius. Unde ob doctrinam, gravitatem, et spectatam prudentiam, à Rege Jacobo, primum ad Episcopatum Glocestrensem provectus, deinde ad Londinensem translatus, et demum à Christo, dum Ecclesiæ, Patriæ, Principi vigilaret, in cœlestem patriam evocatus, placide pieque emigravit, et quod mortale fuit, certa spe resurgendi, hic deposuit, die 14 Decembris, An. salutis 1609.”

AN ELEGIE WRITTEN UPON THE DEATH OF DR. RAVIS, BISHOP OF LONDON.

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.