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A corpulent relique: marry and 't is sinne Of seeing it remaines; ere long you shall
Have that rac't downe, and cali'd apocryphal, Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring, And in some barne heare cited many an author, Who seeke for parity in every thing.
Kate Stubbs, Anne Askew, or the Ladye's daughter; For us, let him enjoy all that God sends,
Which shall be urg'd for fathers. Stopp Disdaine, Plenty of flesh, of livings, and of freinds.
When Oxford once appears, Satyre refraine. Imagine here us ambling downe the street, Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out gon's? Circling in Flower, making both ends meet: Is not St. Giles's this, and that St. John's? Where we fare well foure dayes, and did complain, We are return'd; but just with soe much ore Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine : As Rawleigh from his voyage, and noe more. And on the feast of Barthol mew ve try What revells that saint keepes at Banbury 20. Non recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus, In th' name of God, amen! First to begin,
Non ubivis, coramve quibuslibet.
Hor. lib. i. sat. 4.
ON MR. RICE,
THE MANCIPLE OF CHRIST-CHURCH IN OXFORD. Close by those alters in whose faith they dye. Now ye beleeve the church hath good varietye Who can doubt, Rice, but to th'eternall place Of monuments, when inns have such satiety; Thy soule is fledd, that did but know thy face? But nothing lesse : ther's no inscription there, Whose body was soe light, it might have gone But the church-wardens' names of the last yeare: To Heav'ne without a resurrection. Instead of saints in windowes and on walls, Indeed thou wert all type; thy limmes were signes, Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls :
Thy arteryes but mathematicke lines: Would you not sweare they love antiquity, As if two soules had made thy compound good, Who brush the quire for perpetuity ?
That both should live by faith, and done by blood.
ON HENRY BOLINGS.
Deliver man, Bolings had not di'd yet;
But One which over us in judgment sits, Thinke you the dawes or stares can sett him Doth say our sins are stronger than our wits.
ON JOHN DAWSON,
BUTLER OF CHRIST-CHURCH.
Dawson the butler's dead: although I think Lyes in your folly, not th’ imagery.
Poets were ne're infus'd with single drink, 'T is well the pinnacles are falne in twaine ;
I'll spend a farthing, Muse; a watry verse
Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse
If any cannot weep amongst us here, Fooles, he can dash you from your gallery,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear. Where all your medly meete; and doe compare,
Weep, O ye barrels ! let your drippings fall Not what you learne, but who is longest there;
In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Than when our beer was good, that John may float Like a grand sallet : Tinkers, what a towne ist?
To Styx in beer, and lift up Charon's boat The crosses also, like old stumps of trees,
With wholsome waves : and, as the conduits ran Are stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees;
With claret at the coronation, Carry noe heads above ground: they wbich tell,
So let your channels now with single tiff, That Christ hath nere descended into Hell,
For John, I hope, is crown'd: take off your whiff, But to the grave, his picture buried have
Ye men of rosemary, and drink up all, In a far deeper dungeon thau a grave :
Remembring 't is a butler's funeral: That is, descended to endure what paines
Had he been master of good double beer, The Divell can think, or such disciples' braines.
My life for his, John Dawson had been here. No more my greife, in such prophane abuses Good whipps make better verses then the Muses. Away, and looke not back; away, whilst yet The church is standing, whilst the benefitt
GREAT TOM OF CHRIST-CHURCH. 20 At the signe of the Alter-stone. Edit. 1648. G. 21 Which serve for troughs in the backside. Ib. Be, dumb, yeinfant-chimes, thump not your mettle,
That ne're out-ring a tinker and his kettle;
Cease, all you petty larums; for, to day
A PROPER NEW BALLAD,
THE FAERYE’S FAREWELL;
TO BE SUNG OR WHISELED TO THE TUNE OF
DOW BROW," BY THE LEARNED; BY THE USLEARYDD,
TO THE TUNE OY “FORTUNE."
Farewell rewards and Faeries,
Good bouswives now may say, If thou as loud as e're thou did ring'st nine.
For now foule slutts in daries
Doe fare as well as they.
And though they sweepe theyr hearths no less With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell
Then maydes were wont to doe, Choakt with annoy, and's admiration,
Yet who of late for cleaneliness,
Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old abbies,
The Faries lost command;
They did but change priests' babies,
But some have chang'd your land : He burst with grief; and lest he should not have
And all your children sprung from thence Due pomp, he's his own bell-man to the grave: And that there might of him be still some mention,
Are now growne Puritanes ;
Who live as changelings ever since
For love of your demaines.
At morning and at evening both But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by Heaven,
You merry were and glad, He ne're set such a loaf into the oven.
So little care of sleepe or sloth And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,
These prettie ladies had;
When Tom came home froin labour,
Then merrily merrily went theyre tabor, “ Great world! one Alexander conquer'd thee,
And nimbly went theyre toes.
Wittness those rings and roundelayes
Were footed in queene Marie's dayes Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry,
On many a grassy playne; Since thou was martyr'd for the churche's glory; But since of late, Elizabeth, But for thy meritorious suffering,
Aud later, James came in, Thou shortly shalt to Heaven in a string :
They never daunc'd on any heath And though we griev'd to see thee thump'd and
As when the time hath bin. bang'd, We 'll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang'd.
By which we note the Paries
Were of the old profession;
Theyre daunces were procession :
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,
Or elce they take theyre ease.
A tell-tale in theyre company
They never could endure, Yet as the first is not idolatry,
And whoe so kept not secretly So is the last but grieved industry:
Theyre mirth was punisht sure; And such was mine, whose strife to honour you
It was a just and christian deed
To pinch such blacke and blew :
Such justices as you !
A register they have,
A man both wise and grave;
An hundred of theyre merry prancks
Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crabbe-louse with its bag and baggage,
Or like to hey dinge, dingea dingea dinge :
Even such is he who spake, and yet no doubt
Spake to small purpose, when his tougue was out.
Like to a faire, fresh, faiding, withered rose,
Or lyke to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
Or lyke the stumbles of a tynder box,
Or lyke a man that's sound yet hath the pox:
Even such is he who dyed, and yet did laugh
To see these lines writt for his epitaph.
THE COUNTRY LIFE'.
Thrice and above blest (my soul's halfe!) art thou
In thy though last yet better vowe,
The country's sweet simplicitie,
To growe the sooner innocent,
More at her nature than her name.
Wayes not to live, but to live well.
Led by thy conscience, to give
Wisdome and she togeather goe,
To teach man to contine's desires;
In the contented minde, not mint;
Of cravinge more, are never rich. (prevent
The mange, because thou art content
More blessed in thy brest than land,
To quench not cocker appetite.
Least thankes to Nature, most to Art.
The bellye only, not the eye;
With a neat yet needfull dyett.
Is the fruition of a wife,
Gott, not so beautifull as chast.
Munday trenchers made good hay,
Blew crocodiles foame in the toe,
Will follow the Lancashire dice.
(ASHMOLE'S MUSEUM, A. 37.)
* This poem, of which the leading features seem to be copied from the 10th epistle of the 1st book of Horace, has been printed in The Antient and Modern Miscellany, by Mr. Waldron, from a manuscript in his possession, and it is consequently retained in this edition of Corbet's Poems; to whose acknowledged productions it bears no resemblance, at the same time that it is attributed (in Ashmole's MSS. No. 38, fol. 91.) to Robert Heyrick, the author of Hesperides. G. * Discite quam parvo liceat producere vitam, Et quantum natura petat.
Lucan, iv. ver. 377.
Like to the thundring tone of unspoke speeches,
By whose warm'd side thou dost securely sleepe,
Whilst Love the centinell doth keepe
THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME.
Thou, once a body, now but aire, But still thy wife, by chast intention led,
Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer, Gives thee each night a maidenhead.
From Carfax come; For where pure thoughts are led by godly feare, And patch me up a zealous lay, Trew love, not lust at all, comes there;
With an old ever and for ay,
Or, all and some.
As may a hymne downe send me,
To purge my braine: Sweeten, and make soft thy dreams.
So, Robert, looke bebinde thee, The purlinge springes, groves, birdes, and well- Least Turke or Pope doe find thee, weav'd bowers,
And goe to bed againe.
Millions of lillyes mixt with roses.
EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCES. Whilst Faunus, in the vision, vowes to keepe
From ravenouse wolfe the woolley sheepe;
HERE, for the nonce,
Came Thomas Jonce, meet To make sleepe not so sound as sweet.
In St. Giles church to lye, Nor.can these figures in thy rest endeere,
None Welsh before, As not to up when chanticleere
None Welshman more,
Till Shon Clerk die.
I'll tole the bell
I'll ring his knell; That done, thy painfull thumbe this sentence tells
He died well, God for our labour all thinges sells us.
He 's sav'd from Hell; Nor are thy daylye and devout affayres
And so farwel Attended with those desperate cares
Gold, runneth to the furthest Inde },
Untaught to suffer povertye.
LADYES OF THE NEW DRESSE,
THAT WEARE THEIR GORGETS AND RAYLES DOWNE TO And viewinge them with a more safe survaye,
Mak'st easy feare unto thee say, A heart thrice wall'd with oake and brass that man LADYes, that weare black cipress-railes Had, first durst plough the ocean.
Turn'd lately to white linnen-rayles, But thou at home, without or tyde or gale,
And to your girdle weare your bands, Canst in thy mapp securely sayle,
And shew your armes instead of hands; Viewinge the parted countryes, and so guesse
What can you doe in Lent so meet By their shades their substances;
As, fittest dress, to weare a sheet? And from their compasse borrowing advise,
T' was once a band, 't is now a cloake, Buy'st travayle at the lowest price.
An acorne one day proves an oke: Nor are thy eares so seald but thou canst heare Weare but your linnen to your fect, Far more witb wonder than with feare.
And then your band will prove a sheet.
By which devise, and wise excesse, - Cætera desiderantur.
You'l doe your penance in a dresse ;
And none shall know, by what they see, 3 Iinpiger extremos currit mercator ad Indos,
Which lady's censur'd, and which free.
* See Warton's History of English Poetry, rol. iii. p. 170, 171. G. He contributed some of the Psalms in the Old Version. C.
5 A clergyman, and inhabitant of St. Giles's parish, Oxford. His proper name was Jones G.
THE LADIES' ANSWER.
UPON FAIREFORD WINDOWES'.
(Harl. Mss. NO. 6396.)
(MISC. MSS. POEMS, MUS. BRIT. BIB. SLOAN. NO. 1446.) Blacke cypresse vailes are shroudes on night, White linnen railes are raies of light,
I KNOWE no painte of poetry Which though we to the girdles weare,
Can mend such colour'd imag'ry We've hands to keep your hands off there.
In sullen inke, yet (Fayreford) I A fitter dresse we have in Lent,
May rellish thy fair memory. To shew us trewly penitent.
Such is the echoe's fainter sound, Whoe makes the band to be a cloke
Such is the light when the Sunn 's drown'd, Makes John-a-style of John-an-oake.
So did the fancy look upon We weare our garments to the feet,
The work before it was begun. Yet neede not make our bandes a sheet :
Yet when those showes are out of sight, The clergie weare as long as we,
My weaker colours may delight. Yet that implies conformitie.
Those images doc faithfullie Be wise, recant what you have writt,
Report true feature to the eie, Least you doe pennance for your witte;
As you may think each picture was Love's charm bath power to weare a stringe,
Some visage in a looking-glass; To tye you as you tied your ringe;
Not a glass window face, unless There by love's sharpe but just decree
Such as Cheapside hath, where a press
Of painted gallants, looking out,
Each paine instructs the laity
With silent eloquence; for heere
Devotion leads the eie, not eare, (ASHMOLE'S MUSEUM, A. 38. FOL. 66.)
To note the cathechisinge paint,
Whose easie phrase doth soe acquainte Yrr nought but love-charmes power have
Our sense with gospell, that the creede Your blemisht creditt for to save;
In such an hand the weake may reade. Then know your champion is blind,
Such tipes e'en yett of vertue bee, And that love-nottes are soon untwinde.
And Christ as in a glass we seeBut bleinishes are now a grace,
When with a fishinge rod the clarke And add a lustre to your face;
St. Peter's draught of fish doth marke, Your blemisht credit for to save,
Such is the scale, the eie, the finn, You needed not a vayle to have;
You'd thinke they strive and leape within; The rayle for women may be fitte,
But if the nett, which holdes them, brake, Because they daylie practice ytt.
He with his angle some would take. And, seeing counsell can you not reforme,
But would you walke a turn in Paul's,
A fairer temple. Flinge a stone,
Consider not, but aske your eies,
And ghosts at mid-day seem to rise,
The saintes there seemeing to descend, Tell me, you anti-saints, why brass
Are past the glass, and ownwards bend. With you is shorter lived than glass?
Look there! The Devill! all would cry, And why the saints have scap't their falls
Did they not see that Christ was by. Better from windows than from walles ?
See where he suffers for thee! See Is it, because the brethren's fires
His body taken from the tree ! Maintain a glass-house at Blackfryars?
Had ever death such life before? Next which the church stands north and south, The limber corps, be-sully'd o'er And east and west the preacher's mouth.
With meagre paleness, does display Or is 't, because such painted ware
A middle state 'twixt flesh and clay. Resembles something that you are,
His armes and leggs, bis head and crown, Soe py'de, soe seeming, soe unsound
Like true lambskin dangle downe: In manners, and in doctrine, found,
Whoe can forbeare, the grave being nigh, That, out of emblematick witt,
To bringe fresh ointment in his eye? You spare yourselves in sparing it?
The wond'rous art hath equall fate, If it be soe, then, Faireford, boast
Unfixt, and yet inviolate. Thy church hath kept what all have lost;
The Puritans were sure deceav'd And is preserved from the bane
Whoe thought those shaddowes mov'd and heav'd, Of either warr, or puritane: Whose life is colour'd in thy paint, The inside drosse, the outside saint.
? This poem, which is in some manuscripts attributed to William Stroude, has already been
printed in the topographer of my very intelligent 6 Twenty-eight in number, and painted with the friend, Samuel Egerton Brydges, esq. vol. ii. p. stories of the Old and New Testament, C.