Part 4

Tunc oppidanos miseros Horrendo cornu petit, De quibus dixit, nescio quid, Et rythmum sic effecit. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Bardos Oxonienses In canticis non vicimus Jam Cantabrigienses.

Jam inspicit cratera Quæ regi dono datur, Et aurum ibi positum Subripere conatur. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Nam scelus istud lues, Si fraudes sodalitia, Ad crucem cito rues.

Dein pro-cancellarium Produxit equitantem, In equum valde agilem Huc et illuc saltantem: Sed parce, precor, parcito, Nam tibi vix credetur Si non sub ejus cauda, Urtica poneretur.

Tunc evomit sententiam In ipsum oratorem Qui dixit Jacobissimum, Præter Latinum morem. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Orator exit talis Qui magis pollet lingua Quam ipse naso vales.

Adibat ad comœdiam Et cuncta circumspexit, Actorum diocesin Completam hic detexit Sed parce, precor, parcito, Hæc cogitare mente Non valet jurisdictio Vicario absente.

Fictitio equo subdidit Calcaria, sperans fore Ut eum ire cogeret Gradu submissiore: Sed parce, precor, parcito, Hoc non efficietur Si iste stabularius Habenis moderetur.

Testis est Polonia, Quam sæpe is transivit, Et oneratus sarcina Eodem gradu ivit. Tam parce, precor, parcito, Et credas hoc futurum, Si Brutum regat Asinus Gradatim non iturum.

Comœdiam Ignoramus Eum spectare libet, Et hujus delicatulo Structura non arridet. At parce, precor, parcito, Tum aliter versatus In faciendis canticis Fuisti occupatus.

Tum pergit maledicere Cicestriensi patri, Et vestes etiam vellicat Episcopi barbati. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Et nos tu sales pone, Ne tanti patris careas Benedictione.

Tum cibo se ingurgitans Abunde saginatur, Et venter cum expletus est, Danti convitiatur. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Nam illud verum erit, Quicquid ingrato infecerit Oxoniensi, perit.

At ecce nos videmur Tenaces nimis esse, Gallinam unam quod spectasset Duos comedisse. O parce, precor, parcito, Hæc culpa corrigetur Cum rursus Cantabrigia Episcopo regetur.

Sed novo in sacello Pedissequos aspexit, Quos nostra Academia Honoribus erexit. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Nam ipse es expertus, Effugiunt omnes protinus Cum carcer est apertus.

At nobis minitatur, Si rex sit rediturus, Tunc iste (Phœbo duce) est Tela resumpturus. Sed parce, precor, parcito, Piscator ictus sapit, Fugatus namque miles iners Arma nunquam capit.

Et Cantabrigiam non Lædi hinc speramus, Ex ore tam spurcidico Nil damni expectamus. O parce, ergo, parcito, Oxonia nunquam dicit, Cum Martio princeps abiens In Maio nos revisit.

ADDITAMENTA SUPERIORI CANTICO.

Ingenij amplitudinem Jam satis ostendisti, Et eloquentiæ fructus Abundè protulisti: Sed parce, tibi, parcito, Ne omne absumatur, Ne tandem tibi arido Nil suavi relinquatur.

Jam satis oppugnasti, O Polyphemi proles! Et tanquam taurus gregis Nos oppugnare soles. Sed parce, tandem, parcito, Tuis laudatus eris, Et nunc inultus tanquam stultus A nobis dimitteris.

LADY ARABELLA STUART.

The circumstances of the life of this accomplished and persecuted lady,

“From kings descended, and to kings allied,”

are familiar to every reader of biographical history. In Lodge’s Illustrations of British History are some letters which convey an exalted idea of her mental abilities; and the editor has proved, in opposition to the assertion of the authors of the Biographia Britannica, that she was far from deficient in personal beauty.

She was the only child of Charles Stuart, fifth earl of Lennox, (uncle to James the First, and great-grandson to Henry VII.) by Elizabeth, daughter of sir William Cavendish, of Hardwick; was born about the year 1578, and brought up in privacy under the care of her grandmother, the old countess of Lennox, who had for many years resided in England. Her double relation to royalty was equally obnoxious to the jealousy of Elizabeth and the timidity of James, and they secretly dreaded the supposed danger of her leaving a legitimate offspring. The former, therefore, prevented her from marrying Esme Stuart, her kinsman, and heir to the titles and estates of her family, and afterwards imprisoned her for listening to some overtures from the son of the earl of Northumberland: the latter, by obliging her to reject many splendid offers of marriage, unwarily encouraged the hopes of inferior pretenders. Thus circumscribed, she renewed a childish connection with William Seymour, grandson to the earl of Hertford, which was discovered in 1609; when both parties were summoned to appear before the privy council, and received a severe reprimand. This mode of proceeding produced the very consequence which James meant to avoid; for the lady, sensible that her reputation had been wounded by this inquiry, was in a manner forced into a marriage; which becoming publicly known in the course of the next spring, she was committed to close custody in the house of sir Thomas Parry, at Lambeth, and Mr. Seymour to the Tower. In this state of separation, however, they concerted means for an escape, which both effected on the same day, June 3, 1611; and Mr. Seymour got safely to Flanders: but the poor lady was re-taken in Calais road, and imprisoned in the Tower; where the sense of these undeserved oppressions operating too severely on her high spirit, she became a lunatic, and languished in that wretched state, augmented by the horrors of a prison, till her death on the 27th Sept. 1615.[55]

ON THE LADY ARABELLA.

How do I thanke thee, Death, and blesse thy power That I have past the guard, and scaped the Tower! And now my _pardon_ is my _epitaph_, And a small coffin my poore carkasse hath. For at thy charge both soule and body were Enlarged at last, secured from hope and feare; That among saints, this amongst kings is laid, And what my birth did claim, my death hath paid.

UPON MISTRIS MALLET[56], AN UNHANDSOME GENTLEWOMAN, WHO MADE LOVE UNTO HIM.

Have I renounc’t my faith, or basely sold Salvation, and my loyalty, for gold? Have I some forreigne practice undertooke By poyson, shott, sharp-knife, or sharper booke To kill my king? have I betrayd the state To fire and fury, or some newer fate, Which learned murderers, those grand destinies, The Jesuites, have nurc’d? if of all these I guilty am, proceed; I am content That Mallet take mee for my punishment. For never sinne was of so high a rate, But one nights hell with her might expiate. Although the law with Garnet[57], and the rest, Dealt farr more mildly; hanging’s but a jest To this immortall torture. Had shee bin then In Maryes torrid dayes engend’red, when Cruelty was witty, and Invention free Did live by blood, and thrive by crueltye, Shee would have bin more horrid engines farre Than fire, or famine, racks, and halters are. Whether her witt, forme, talke, smile, tire I name, Each is a stock of tyranny, and shame; But for her breath, spectatours come not nigh, That layes about; God blesse the company! The man, in a beares skin baited to death, Would chose the doggs much rather then her breath; One kisse of hers, and eighteene wordes alone Put downe the _Spanish Inquisition_. Thrice happy wee (quoth I thinking thereon) That see no dayes of persecution; For were it free to kill, this grisly elfe Wold martyrs make in compass of herselfe: And were shee not prevented by our prayer, By this time shee corrupted had the aire. And am I innocent? and is it true, That thing (which poet Plinye never knew, Nor Africk, Nile, nor ever Hackluyts eyes Descry’d in all his _East, West-voyages_; That thing, which poets were afrayd to feigne, For feare her shadowe should infect their braine; This spouse of Antichrist, and his alone, Shee’s drest so like the Whore of Babylon;) Should doate on mee? as if they did contrive The devill and she, to damne a man alive. Why doth not _Welcome_ rather purchase her, And beare about this rare familiar? Sixe markett dayes, a wake, and a fayre too ’t, Would save his charges, and the ale to boot. No tyger’s like her; shee feedes upon a man Worse than a tygresse or a leopard can. Let mee go pray, and thinke upon some spell, At once to bid the devill and her farwell.

HENRY PRINCE OF WALES.

Upon the death of the promising Henry (Nov. 6, 1612), a prince, according to Arthur Wilson[58], as eminent in nobleness as in blood, and who fell not without suspicion of foul play, the poets his cotemporaries, whom he liberally patronised, poured forth by reams their tributary verses.

Corbet, as it has been before observed, pronounced his funeral oration at Oxford.

Nor was this all: while his bones were perishing and his flesh was rottenness, Dr. Daniel Price, his chaplain during his life, continued to commemorate his dissolution by preaching an anniversary sermon. Neither the practice nor its execution was agreeable to Corbet, who, after a triennial repetition, thus attacked the anniversarist.

IN QUENDAM ANNIVERSARIORUM SCRIPTOREM.

Ter circum Iliacos raptaverat Hectora muros.

VIRG. Æn. 1. 483.

Even soe dead Hector thrice was triumph’d on The walls of Troy, thrice slain when Fates had done: So did the barbarous Greekes before their hoast Torment his ashes and profane his ghost: As Henryes vault, his peace, his sacred hearse, Are torne and batter’d by thine Anniverse. Was ’t not enough Nature and strength were foes, But thou must yearly murther him in prose? Or dost thou thinke thy raving phrase can make A lowder eccho then the Almanake? Trust mee, November doth more ghastly looke In Dade and Hopton’s[59] pennyworth then thy booke; And sadder record their fixt figure beares Then thy false-printed and ambitious teares. For were it not for Christmas, which is nigh, When spice, fruit eaten, and digested pye Call for waste paper; no man could make shift How to employ thy writings to his thrift. Wherefore forbear, for pity or for shame, And let some richer penne redeeme his fame From rottennesse. Thou leave him captive; since So vile a PRICE ne’ere ransom’d such a Prince.

AN ANSWER, BY DR. PRICE[60].

So to dead Hector boys may do disgrace, That durst not look upon his living face; So worst of men behind their betters’ back May stretch mens names and credit on the rack. Good friend, our general tie to him that’s gone Should love the man that yearlie doth him moane: The author’s zeal and place he now doth hold, His love and duty makes him be thus bold To offer this poor mite, his anniverse Unto his good great master’s sacred hearse; The which he doth with privilege of name, Whilst others, ’midst their ale, in corners blame. A pennyworth in print they never made, Yet think themselves as good as Pond or Dade. One anniverse, when thou hast done thus twice, Thy words among the best will be of PRICE.

IN POETAM EXAUCTORATUM ET EMERITUM.

Nor is it griev’d, grave youth, the memory Of such a story, such a booke as hee, That such a copy through the world were read; _Henry yet lives, though he be buried_. It could be wish’d that every eye might beare His eare good witnesse that he still were here; That sorrowe ruled the yeare, and by that sunne Each man could tell you how the day had runne: O ’twere an honest boast, for him could say I have been busy, and wept out the day Remembring him. An epitaph would last Were such a trophee, such a banner placed Upon his corse as this: _Here a man lyes_ _Was slaine by Henrye’s dart, not Destinie’s_. Why this were med’cinable, and would heale, Though the whole languish’d, halfe the commonweale. But for a _Cobler_ to goe burn his cappe, And cry, The Prince, the Prince! O dire mishappe! Or a Geneva-bridegroom, after grace, To throw his spouse i’ th’ fire; or scratch her face To the tune of the Lamentation; or delay His _Friday_ capon till the _Sabbath_ day: Or an old Popish lady half vow’d dead To fast away the day in gingerbread: For him to write such annals; all these things Do open laughter’s and shutt up griefe’s springs. Tell me, what juster or more congruous peere Than Ale, to judge of workes begott of beere? Wherefore forbeare—or, if thou print the next, Bring better notes, or take a meaner text.

ON MR. FRANCIS BEAUMONT, THEN NEWLY DEAD.

(The following lines, which have hitherto been omitted in the bishop’s poems, are found in the collected dramas of the

“twin stars that run Their glorious course round Shakespeare’s honoured sun.”

Beaumont was born 1585, and was buried the ninth of March 1615, in the entrance of St. Bennet’s chapel, Westminster abbey.)

He that hath such acuteness and such wit As would aske ten good heads to husband it; He that can write so well, that no man dare Refuse it for the best, let him beware: Beaumont is dead! by whose sole death appears Wit’s a disease consumes men in few yeares.

WILLIAM LORD HOWARD, OF EFFINGHAM,

the subject of the succeeding poem, was the eldest son of Charles Howard, earl of Nottingham, (lord high admiral of England, and defeater of the Spanish Armada in the reign of Elizabeth, a nobleman of high estimation during greater part of the reign of her successor,) by Catharine, daughter of Henry Carey, lord Hunsdon; celebrated for concealing the ring by which the life of the earl of Essex might have been saved, and upon whose death-bed discovery of the concealment Elizabeth told her, “God may forgive you, but I never can.”

Lord Howard makes no conspicuous figure in the page of history: he was summoned by writ to several parliaments during his father’s life, whom he accompanied on his embassy to the court of Spaine (1604), but died before him 10th Dec. 1615, and was buried at Chelsea.

He married in 1597 Anne, daughter and sole heiress to John lord St. John of Bletsoe, by whom he left one daughter, who became the wife of John lord Mordaunt, afterwards earl of Peterborough.

AN ELEGIE[61] ON THE LATE LORD WILLIAM HOWARD, BARON OF EFFINGHAM.

I did not know thee, lord, nor do I strive To win access, or grace, with lords alive: The dead I serve, from whence nor faction can Move me, nor favour; nor a greater man. To whom no vice commends me, nor bribe sent, From whom no penance warns, nor portion spent; To these I dedicate as much of me, As I can spare from my own husbandry: And till ghosts walk as they were wont to do, I trade for some, and do these errands too. But first I do enquire, and am assur’d, What tryals in their journeys they endur’d; What certainties of honour and of worth Their most uncertain life-times have brought forth; And who so did least hurt of this small store, He is my patron, dy’d he rich or poor. First I will know of Fame (after his peace, When flattery and envy both do cease) Who rul’d his actions: Reason, or my lord? Did the whole man rely upon a word, A badge of title? or, above all chance, Seem’d he as ancient as his cognizance? What did he? Acts of mercy, and refrain Oppression in himself, and in his train? Was his essential table full as free As boasts and invitations use to be? Where if his russet-friend did chance to dine, Whether his satten-man would fill him wine? Did he think perjury as lov’d a sin, Himself forsworn, as if his slave had been? Did he seek regular pleasures? Was he known Just husband of one wife, and she his own? Did he give freely without pause, or doubt, And read petitions ere they were worn out? Or should his well-deserving _client_ ask, Would he bestow a tilting, or a masque To keep need vertuous? and that done, not fear What lady damn’d him for his absence there? Did he attend the court for no man’s fall? Wore he the ruine of no hospital? And when he did his rich apparel don, Put he no widow, nor an orphan on? Did he love simple vertue for the thing? The king for no respect but for the king? But, above all, did his religion wait Upon God’s throne, or on the chair of state? He that is guilty of no _quæry_ here, Out-lasts his epitaph, out-lives his heir. But there is none such, none so little bad; Who but this negative goodness ever had? Of such a lord we may expect the birth, He’s rather in the womb, than on the earth. And ’twere a crime in such a public fate, For one to live well and degenerate: And therefore I am angry, when a name Comes to upbraid the world like _Effingham_. Nor was it modest in thee to depart To thy eternal home, where now thou art, Ere thy reproach was ready; or to die, Ere custom had prepar’d thy calumny. Eight days have past since thou hast paid thy debt To sin, and not a libel stirring yet; Courtiers that scoff by patent, silent sit, And have no use of slander or of wit; But (which is monstrous) though against the tyde, The watermen have neither rayl’d nor ly’d. Of good or bad there’s no distinction known, For in thy praise the good and bad are one. It seems, we all are covetous of fame, And, hearing what a purchase of good name Thou lately mad’st, are careful to increase Our title, by the holding of some lease From thee our landlord, and for that th’ whole crew Speak now like tenants, ready to renew. It were too sad to tell thy pedegree, Death hath disordered all, misplacing thee; Whilst now thy herauld, in his line of heirs, Blots out thy name, and fills the space with tears. And thus hath conqu’ring Death, or Nature rather, Made thee prepostrous ancient to thy father, Who grieves th’ art so, and like a glorious light Shines ore thy hearse. He therefore that would write And blaze thee throughly, may at once say all, _Here lies the anchor of our admiral_. Let others write for glory or reward, Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.

LORD MORDAUNT.

The lord Mordaunt to whom this poem is addressed was John fifth baron Mordaunt of Turvey, in the county of Bedford, who was afterwards (in 1628) created earl of Peterborough by king Charles the First. He married Elizabeth, daughter and heir of William baron Howard of Effingham, (son and heir apparent of Charles earl of Nottingham,) by Anne his wife, daughter and heir of John baron St. John of Bletsoe. He was brought up in the Roman Catholic religion, but converted to that of the established church by a disputation at which he was present between a Jesuit and the celebrated Dr. Usher, (afterwards) bishop of Armagh. In 1642 he was general of the ordnance, and colonel of a regiment of foot in the army, raised for the service of the Parliament, commanded by the earl of Essex, and died the same year.

In order to understand the following poem, it will be necessary to remember, that James, in the year 1617, paid a visit to his native country, whither the lord Mordaunt accompanied him; and the ceremony of installing the knights of the garter was consequently deferred from St. George’s day to that of Holyrood.

TO THE LORD MORDANT, UPON HIS RETURNE FROM THE NORTH.

My lord, I doe confesse at the first newes Of your returne towards home, I did refuse To visit you, for feare the northerne winde Had peirc’t into your manners and your minde; For feare you might want memory to forget Some arts of Scotland which might haunt you yet. But when I knew you were, and when I heard You were at Woodstock seene, well sunn’d and air’d, That your contagion in you now was spent, And you were just lord Mordant, as you went, I then resolv’d to come; and did not doubt To be in season, though the bucke were out. Windsor the place; the day was Holy roode; Saint George my muse: for be it understood, For all Saint George more early in the yeare Broke fast and eat a bitt, hee dined here: And though in Aprill in redd inke he shine, Know twas September made him redd with wine. To this good sport rod I, as being allow’d To see the king, and cry him in the crowd; And at all solemne meetings have the grace To thrust, and to be trodde on, by my place.

Where when I came, I saw the church besett With tumults, as if all the Brethren mett To heare some silenc’t teacher of that quarter Inveigh against the order of the garter: And justly might the weake it grieve and wrong, Because the garter prayes in a strange tongue; And doth retaine traditions yet, of Fraunce, In an old _Honi soit qui mal y pense_. Whence learne, you knights that order that have t’ane, That all, besides the buckle, is profane. But there was noe such doctrine now at stake, Noe starv’d precisian from the pulpit spake: And yet the church was full; all sorts of men, Religions, sexes, ages, were there then: Whilst he that keepes the quire together locks Papists and Puritans, the Pope and Knox: Which made some wise-ones feare, that love our nation, This mixture would beget a toleration; Or that religions should united bee, When they stay’d service, these the letany. But noe such hast; this dayes devotion lyes Not in the hearts of men, but in their eyes; They that doe see St. George, heare him aright; For hee loves not to parly, but to fight. Amongst this audience (my lord) stood I, Well edified as any that stood by; And knew how many leggs a knight letts fall, Betwixt the king, the offering, and his stall: Aske mee but of their robes, I shall relate The colour and the fashion, and the state: I saw too the procession without doore, What the poore knightes, and what the prebends wore. All this my neighbors that stood by mee tooke, Who div’d but to the garment, and the looke; But I saw more, and though I have their fate In face and favour, yet I want their pate: Mee thought I then did those first ages know, Which brought forth knightes soo arm’d and looking soe, Who would maintaine their oath, and bind their worde With these two seales, an altar and a sworde. Then saw I George new-sainted, when such preists Wore him not only on, but in their breasts. Oft did I wish that day, with solemne vow, O that my country were in danger now! And twas no treason; who could feare to dye, When he was sure his rescue was so nigh?