Part 6

The mighty zeale which thou hast new put on, Neither by prophet nor by prophetts sonne As yet prevented, doth transport mee so Beyond my selfe, that, though I ne’re could go Farr in a verse, and all rithmes have defy’d Since Hopkins and old Thomas Sternhold dy’de, (Except it were that little paines I tooke To please good people in a prayer-booke That I sett forth, or so) yet must I raise My spirit for thee, who shall in thy praise Gird up her loynes, and furiously run All kinde of feet, save Satans cloven one. Such is thy zeale, so well dost thou express it, That, (wer ’t not like a charme,) I’de say, Christ blesse it. I needs must say ’tis a spirituall thing To raile against a bishopp, or the king; Nor are they meane adventures wee have bin in, About the wearing of the churches linnen; But these were private quarrells: this doth fall Within the compass of the generall. Whether it be a pole painted, and wrought Farr otherwise, then from the wood ’twas brought, Whose head the idoll-makers hand doth croppe, Where a lew’d bird, towring upon the topp, Lookes like the calfe at Horeb; at whose roots The unyoak’t youth doth exercise his foote; Or whether it reserve his boughes, befreinded By neighb’ring bushes, and by them attended: How caust thou chuse but seeing it complaine, That Baalls worship’t in the groves againe? Tell mee how curst an egging, what a sting Of lust do their unwildy daunces bring? The simple wretches say they meane no harme, They doe not, surely; but their actions warme Our purer blouds the more: for Sathan thus Tempts us the more, that are more righteous. Oft hath a Brother most sincerely gon, Stifled in prayer and contemplation, When lighting on the place where such repaire, He viewes the nimphes, and is quite out in ’s prayer. Oft hath a Sister, grownded in the truth, Seeing the jolly carriage of the youth, Bin tempted to the way that’s broad and bad; And (wert not for our private pleasures) had Renounc’t her little ruffe, and goggle eye, And quitt her selfe of the Fraternity. What is the mirth, what is the melody, That setts them in this Gentiles vanity? When in our sinagogue wee rayle at sinne, And tell men of the faults which they are in, With hand and voice so following our theames, That wee put out the side-men from their dreames. Sounds not the pulpett, which wee then be-labour, Better, and holyer, then doth the tabour? Yet, such is unregenerate mans folly, Hee loves the wicked noyse, and hates the holy. Routes and wilde pleasures doe invite temptation, And this is dangerous for our damnation; Wee must not move our selves, but, if w’ are mov’d, Man is but man; and therefore those that lov’d Still to seeme good, would evermore dispence With their owne faults, so they gave no offence. If the times sweete entising, and the blood That now begins to boyle, have thought it good To challenge Liberty and Recreation, Let it be done in holy contemplation: Brothers and Sisters in the feilds may walke, Beginning of the Holy Worde to talke, Of David, and Uriahs lovely wife, Of Thamar, and her lustfull brothers strife; Then, underneath the hedge that woos them next, They may sitt down; and there act out the text. Nor do wee want, how ere wee live austeere, In winter Sabbath-nights our lusty cheere; And though the pastors grace, which oft doth hold Halfe an howre long, make the provision cold, Wee can be merry; thinking ’t nere the worse To mend the matter at the second course. Chapters are read, and hymnes are sweetly sung, Joyntly commanded by the nose and tongue; Then on the Worde wee diversly dilate, Wrangling indeed for heat of zeale, not hate: When at the length an unappeased doubt Feircely comes in, and then the light goes out; Darkness thus workes our peace, and wee containe Our fyery spiritts till we see againe. Till then, no voice is heard, no tongue doth goe, Except a tender Sister shreike, or so. Such should be our delights, grave and demure, Not so abominable, not so impure, As those thou seek’st to hinder, but I feare Satan will bee too strong; his kingdome’s here: Few are the righteous now, nor do I know How wee shall ere this idoll overthrow; Since our sincerest patron is deceas’t, The number of the righteous is decreast. But wee do hope these times will on, and breed A faction mighty for us; for indeede Wee labour all, and every Sister joynes To have regenerate babes spring from our loynes: Besides, what many carefully have done, Getting the unrighteous man, a righteous sonne. Then stoutly on, let not thy flocke range lewdly In their old vanity, thou lampe of Bewdly. One thing I pray thee; do not too much thirst After Idolatryes last fall; but first Follow this suite more close, let it not goe Till it be thine as thou would’st have ’t: for soe Thy successors, upon the same entayle, Hereafter, may take up the Whitson-ale.

ANNE, WIFE OF JAMES THE FIRST,

Daughter of Frederick the Second, king of Denmark, died of a dropsy the 2d of March 1619.

On the 18th of November 1618, a comet (as alluded to in a foregoing poem) was seen in Libra, which continued visible till the 16th of December; and the vulgar, who think

Nunquam futilibus excanduit ignibus æther,

considered it indicative of great misfortunes; and the death of the queen which closely followed, the first object of its portentous mission.

“The queen was in her great condition,” says Wilson, “a good woman, not tempted from that height she stood on to embroyl her spirit much with things below her, only giving herself content in her own house with such recreations as might not make time tedious unto her; and though great persons’ actions are often pried into, and made envy’s mark, yet nothing could be fixed upon her that left any great impression, but that she may have engraven upon her monument a character of virtue.”

AN ELEGY UPON THE DEATH OF QUEENE ANNE.

Noe; not a quatch, sad poets; doubt you, There is not greife enough without you? Or that it will asswage ill newes, To say, Shee’s dead, that was your muse? Joine not with Death to make these times More grievous then most grievous rimes.

And if ’t be possible, deare eyes, The famous Universityes, If bold your eyes bee matches, sleepe; Or, if you will be loyall, weepe: For-beare the press, there’s none will looke Before the mart for a new booke.

Why should you tell the world what witts Grow at New-parkes, or Campus-pitts? Or what conceipts youth stumble on, Taking the ayre towards Trumpington? Nor you, grave tutours, who doe temper Your long and short with _que_ and _semper_; O doe not, when your owne are done, Make for my ladyes eldest sonne Verses, which he will turne to prose, When he shall read what you compose: Nor, for an epithite that failes, Bite off your unpoëticke nailes. Unjust! Why should you in these vaines, Punish your fingers for your braines?

Know henceforth, that griefes vitall part Consists in nature, not in art: And verses that are studied Mourne for themselves, not for the dead.

Heark, the Queenes epitaph shall bee Noe other then her pedigree: For lines in bloud cutt out are stronger Then lines in marble, and last longer: And such a verse shall never fade, That is begotten, and not made.

“Her father, brother, husband, ... kinges; Royall relations! from her springes A prince and princesse; and from those Faire certaintyes, and rich hope growes.” Here’s poetry shall be secure While Britaine, Denmarke, Rheine endure: Enough on earth; what purchase higher, Save heaven, to perfect her desire? And as a straying starr intic’t And governd those wise-men to Christ, Ev’n soe a herauld-starr this yeare Did beckon to her to appeare: A starr which did not to our nation Portend her death, but her translation: For when such harbingers are seene, God crownes a saint, not kills a queene.

VINCENT CORBET,

Who, from causes which I have not conclusively ascertained, assumed the name of Poynter, was one of those by whose experience and information sir Hugh Platt, at a period when the horticultural arts in this country were in their infancy, was enabled to publish his “Garden Of Eden.” The beautiful “Epitaph” of Ben Jonson, and the following “Elegy,” are high testimonials of his amiable and virtuous disposition.

His father’s name I have not learned; but his mother, whose name was Rose, was buried at Twickenham, September the 13th, 1611, and the register of the same parish proves that her son pursued her path the 29th April, 1619.

Among other legacies, he bequeathed to the poor of Twickenham forty shillings, to be paid immediately after his decease; and four loads of charcoal, to be distributed at the discretion of the churchwardens. These bequests are overlooked by Ironside and Lysons, and I am happy in recording the father of bishop Corbet as a benefactor to my native village.

Nescis quâ natale solum dulcedine captos Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF HIS OWNE FATHER.

Vincent Corbet, farther knowne By Poynters name, then by his owne, Here lyes ingaged till the day Of raising bones, and quickning clay. Nor wonder, reader, that he hath Two surnames in his epitaph; For this one did comprehend All that two familyes could lend: And if to know more arts then any Could multiply one into many, Here a colony lyes, then, Both of qualityes and men. Yeares he liv’d well nigh fourscore; But count his vertues, he liv’d more; And number him by doeing good, He liv’d their age beyond the Flood. Should wee undertake his story, Truth would seeme fain’d, and plainesse glory: Beside, this tablet were too small, Add to the pillers and the wall. Yet of this volume much is found, Written in many a fertill ground; Where the printer thee affords Earth for paper, trees for words. He was Natures factour here, And legier lay for every sheire; To supply the ingenious wants Of some spring-fruites, and forraigne plants. Simple he was, and wise withall; His purse nor base, nor prodigall; Poorer in substance then in freinds; Future and publicke were his endes; His conscience, like his dyett, such As neither tooke nor left too much: Soe that made lawes were uselesse growne To him, he needed but his owne. Did he his neighbours bid, like those That feast them only to enclose? Or with their rost meate racke their rents, And cozen them with their consents? Noe; the free meetings at his boord Did but one litterall sence afforde; Noe close or aker understood, But only love and neighbourhood. His alms were such as Paul defines, Not causes to be said, but signes; Which alms, by faith, hope, love, laid down, Laid up what now he wears ... a crown. Besides his fame, his goods, his life, He left a greiv’d sonne, and a wife; Straunge sorrow, not to be beleiv’d, Whenas the sonne and heire is greiv’d. Reade then, and mourne, what ere thou art That doost hope to have a part In honest epitaphs; least, being dead, Thy life bee written, and not read.

THE LADY HADDINGTON

Was first wife of John Ramsey, viscount Haddington in Scotland, and daughter of Robert Radcliffe, earl of Sussex. Her marriage was celebrated by Ben Jonson, in a masque presented at court on the Shrove-Tuesday at night (1608)[72]; and here is her monody by Corbet.

She had two sons, Charles and James, and a daughter, Elizabeth, who all died young. Her father died without surviving issue, September 22d, 1629.

Her husband, who was a great favourite with king James, survived her, and was created baron of Kingston upon Thames, and earl of Holderness, 22 Jan. 1620-1. He had a second wife, daughter of sir William Cockayne, alderman of London[73]:

But his first lady, the subject of the present article, was evidently dead before his elevation to the English peerage.

AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF THE LADY HADDINGTON, WHO DYED OF THE SMALL POX.

Deare losse, to tell the world I greive were true, But that were to lament my selfe, not you; That were to cry out helpe for my affaires, For which nor publick thought, nor private, cares: No, when thy fate I publish amongst men, I should have power, and write with the States pen: I should in naming thee force publicke teares, And bid their eyes pay ransome for their cares. First, thy whole life was a short feast of witt, And Death th’ attendant which did waite on it: To both mankind doth owe devotion ample, To that their first, to this their last example. And though ’twere praise enough (with them whose fame And vertue’s nothing but an ample name) That thou wert highly borne, (which no man doubtes) And so mightst swath base deedes in noble cloutes; Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud, And being noble, wast nor foole, nor proud; And when thy youth was ripe, when now the suite Of all the longing court was for thy fruit, How wisely didst thou choose! Foure blessed eyes, The kings and thine, had taught thee to be wise. Did not the best of men thee virgin give Into his handes, by which himselfe did live? Nor didst thou two yeares after talke of force, Or, lady-like, make suit for a divorce: Who, when their owne wilde lust is falsely spent, Cry out, “My lord, my lord is impotent.” Nor hast thou in his nuptiall armes enjoy’d Barren imbraces, but wert girl’d and boy’d: Twice-pretty-ones thrice worthier were their youth Might shee but bring them up, that brought them forth: Shee would have taught them by a thousand straines, (Her bloud runns in their manners, not their veines) That glory is a lye; state a grave sport; And country sicknesse above health at court. Oh what a want of her loose gallants have, Since shee hath chang’d her window for a grave; From whence shee us’d to dart out witt so fast, And stick them in their coaches as they past! Who now shall make well-colour’d vice looke pale? Or a curl’d meteor with her eyes exhale, And talke him into nothing? Who shall dare Tell barren braines they dwell in fertill haire? Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe, And, by tart similyes, repentance draw From those, whome preachers had given ore? Even such Whome sermons could not reach, her arrowes touch. Hereafter, fooles shall prosper with applause, And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause: Hee of fourescore, three night capps, and two haires, Shall marry her of twenty, and get heyres Which shall be thought his owne; and none shall say But tis a wondrous blessing, and he may. Now (which is more then pitty) many a knight, Which can doe more then quarrell, less then fight, Shall choose his weapons, ground; draw seconds thither, Put up his sword, and not be laught at neyther. Oh thou deform’d unwoeman-like disease, That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow’st pease, And leav’st such printes on beauty, that dost come As clouted shon do on a floore of lome; Thou that of faces hony-combes dost make, And of two breasts two cullenders, forsake Thy deadly trade; thou now art rich, give ore, And let our curses call thee forth no more. Or, if thou needs will magnify thy power, Goe where thou art invoked every houre Amongst the gamsters, where they name thee thicke At the last maine, or the last pocky nicke. Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice, There thou shalt practice on more then one vice. There’s wherewithall to entertaine the pox, There’s more then reason, there’s rime for ’t, the box. Thou who hast such superfluous store of game, Why struckst thou one whose ruine is thy shame? O, thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist; And, where thy shaft was needfull, there it mist. Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face, Where thy ill-favour’d kindnesse might adde grace, That men might say, How beauteous once was shee! Or, What a peece, ere shee was seaz’d by thee! Thou shouldst have wrought on some such ladyes mould That ne’re did love her lord, nor ever could Untill shee were deform’d, thy tyranny Were then within the rules of charity. But upon one whose beauty was above All sort of art, whose love was more then love, On her to fix thy ugly counterfett, Was to erect a pyramide of jett, And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell, And place it where a gentle soule should dwell: A soule which in the body would not stay, When twas noe more a body, nor good clay, But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race, Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case, Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless, faire, Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are! Rest in that country, and injoy that ease, Which thy frayle flesh deny’de, and her disease!

ON THE CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY.

The failure of success in the representation of this play has been detailed in the Life of the Bishop: indeed it seems to have subjected the Oxonians to much ridicule, which the elegant bishop King[74] joined with Corbet in retorting. One of the numerous banters on this occasion is recorded by Wood, and deserves to be preserved:

“At Christ-Church ‘Marriage,’ done before the king, Lest that those mates should want an offering, The king himself did offer—What? I pray. He offer’d twice or thrice to go away.”

ON CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY AT WOODSTOCK.

If wee, at Woodstock, have not pleased those, Whose clamorous judgments lye in urging noes, And, for the want of whifflers, have destroy’d Th’ applause, which wee with vizards hadd enjoy’d, Wee are not sorry; for such witts as these Libell our windowes oft’ner then our playes; Or, if their patience be moov’d, whose lipps Deserve the knowledge of the proctorships, Or judge by houses, as their howses goe, Not caring if their cause be good or noe; Nor by desert or fortune can be drawne To credit us, for feare they loose their pawne; Wee are not greatly sorry; but if any, Free from the yoake of the ingaged many, That dare speake truth even when their head stands by, Or when the seniors spoone is in the pye; Nor to commend the worthy will forbeare, Though he of Cambridge, or of Christ-church were, And not of his owne colledge; and will shame To wrong the person, for his howse, or name; If any such be greiv’d, then downe proud spirit; If not, know, number never conquer’d merit.

THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Of the romantic expedition to Spain of “Baby Charles and Stennie” an account is given by Clarendon, and a more minute narrative by Arthur Wilson in his Life of James. The voyage was conducted with great secrecy, and very few attendants: but it is worthy remark, that Archee “the princes fool-man” was one of the party. Howell, who was at Madrid at the time, says, “Our cousin Archy hath more privilege than any, for he often goes with his fool’s-coat where the _Infanta_ is with her Meninas and ladies of honour, and keeps a blowing and blustering amongst them, and flurts out what he list.” One of his “flurts” at the Spaniards is related in the same page[75].

The poem, as far as it describes the various rumours during the absence of the parties, a period of great consternation, is curious: the report of Buckingham’s “difference with the Cond’ Olivares” rests upon better authority than the then opinion of the poet.

They left the court Feb. 17th, and returned to England the 5th Oct. 1623.

A LETTER TO THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, BEING WITH THE PRINCE IN SPAINE.