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Stamp'd to the time. As woods whose change appeares | With weightie sorrow hurles us all along,

Still in their leaves, throughout the sliding yeares,
The first-borne dying; so the aged state
Of words decay, and phrases borne but late
Like tender buds shoot up, and freshly grow.
Our selves, and all that's ours, to death we owe:
Whether the sea receiv'd into the shore,
That from the north, the navie safe doth store,
A kingly worke; or that long barren fen
Once rowable, but now doth nourish men
In neighbour-townes, and feeles the weightie plough;
Or the wilde river, who hath changed now
His course so hurtfull both to graine, and seedes,
Being taught a better way. All mortall deeds
Shall perish so farre off it is the state,
Or grace of speech, should hope a lasting date.
Much phrase that now is dead, shall be reviv'd;
And much shall dye, that now is nobly liv'd,
If custome please; at whose disposing will
The power and rule of speaking resteth still.
The gests of kings, great captaines,and sad warres,
What number best can fit, Homer declares.
In verse unequall match'd, first sowre laments,
After men's wishes, crown'd in their events
Were also clos'd: but who the man should be,
That first sent forth the dapper elegie,
All the grammarians strive; and yet in court
Before the judge it hangs, and waites report.

Unto the lyrick strings, the Muse gave grace
To chant the gods and all their god-like race,
The conqu'ring champion, the prime horse in course,
Fresh lovers businesse, and the wine's free source.
Th' lambick arm'd Archilochus to rave,
This foot the socks tooke up and buskins grave,
As fit t' exchange discourse; a verse to win
On popular noise with, and doe businesse in.
The comick matter will not be exprest
In tragick verse; no lesse Thyestes' feast
Abborres low numbers, and the private straine
Fit for the sock: each subject should retaine
The place allotted it, with decent thewes.
If now the turnes, the colours, and right hues
Of poëms here describ'd, I can, nor use,
Nor know t' observe: why (i' the Muse's name)
Am I called poët? wherefore with wrong shame,
Perversly modest, had I rather owe

To ignorance still, then either learne, or know.
Yet sometime, doth the comedie excite
Her voyce and angry Chremes chafes out-right
With swelling throat: and oft the tragick wight
Complains in bumble phrase. Both Telephus,
And Peleus, if they seeke to heart-strike us
That are spectators, with their miserie,
When they are poore, and banish'd, must throw by
Their bombard-phrase, and foot-and-halfe-foot words:
'T is not enough, th' elaborate Muse affords
Her poëm's beautie, but a sweet delight
To work the hearers' minds, still to their plight.
Men's faces still, with such as laugh, are prone
To laughter; so they grieve with those that mone.
If thou would'st have me weepe, be thou first drown'd
Thy selfe in teares, then me thy losse will wound,
Peleus, or Telephus. If you speake vile

And ill-penn'd things, I shall, or sleepe, or smile.
Sad language fits sad lookes; stuff'd menacings,
The angry brow; the sportive, wanton things;
And the severe, speech ever serious.

For Nature, first within doth fashion us
To every state of fortune; she helpes on,
Or urgeth us to anger; and anon
VOL. V.

And tortures us: and after by the tongue
Her truch-man, she reports the minds each throw.
If now the phrase of him that speaks shall flow
In sound, quite from his fortune; both the rout,
And Roman gentrie, jearing, will laugh out.
It much will differ, if a god speake than,
Or an heroe; if a ripe old man,

Or some hot youth, yet in his flourishing course;
Where some great lady, or her diligent nourse;
A ventring merchant, or the farmer free
Of some small thankfull land: whether he be
Of Cholchis borne; or in Assyria bred;
Or, with the milk of Thebes; or Argus, fed.
Or follow fame, thou that dost write, or faine
Things in themselves agreeing: if againe
Honour'd Achilles chance by thee be seiz'd,
Keepe him still active, angry, un-appeas'd,
Sharpe and contemning lawes at him should aime,
Be nought so 'bove him but his sword let claime.
Medea make brave with impetuous scorne;
Ino bewaild; Ixion false, forsworne;
Poore Jö wandring; wild Orestes mad:
If something strange, that never yet was had
Unto the scene thou bringst, and dar'st create
A meere new person; looke he keepe his state
Unto the last, as when he first went forth,
Still to be like himselfe, and hold his worth.

'T is hard to speake things common, properly:
And thou maist better bring a rhapsody
Of Homer's forth in acts, then of thine owne,
First publish things unspoken and unknowne.
Yet common matter thou thine owne maist make,
If thou the vile, broad-troden ring forsake.
For being a poët, thou maist feigne, create,
Not care, as thou wouldst faithfully translate,
To render word for word: nor with thy sleight
Of imitation, leape into a streight,
From whence thy modestie, or poëme's law
Forbids thee forth againe thy foot to draw.
Nor so begin, as did that circler late,

I sing a noble warre and Priam's fate.
What doth this promiser such gaping worth
Afford? the mountaines travail'd, and brought forth
A scorned mouse! O, how much better this,
Who nought assaies unaptly, or amisse ?

'Speake to me, Muse, the man, who after Troy was

sack't

Saw many townes and men, and could their manners
tract."

He thinkes not, how to give you smoake from light,
But light from smoake; that he may draw his bright
Wonders forth after: as Antiphates,
Scylla, Charybdis, Polypheme, with thesc.
Nor from the brand, with which the life did burne
Of Meleager, brings he the returne

Of Diomede; nor Troye's sad warre begins
From the two egges, that did disclose the twins.
He ever bastens to the end, and so
(As if he knew it) rapps his hearer to
The middle of his matter: letting goe
What he despaires, being handled, might not show.
And so well faines, so mixeth cunningly

Falsehood with truth, as no man can espie
Where the midst differs from the first: or where
The last doth from the midst dis-joyn'd appeare.
Heare, what it is the people, and I desire:
If such a one's applause thou dost require,
That tarries till the hangings be ta'en downe,
And sits till the epilogue saies clap, cr crowne:

Nu

play very well." This is not the only occasion which the Oxford biographer takes to advert to a levity in Corbet's character which was thought unbecoming his profession.

On the 30th of July 1629, he was promoted to the see of Oxford, and on the 7th of April 1632 was translated to that of Norwich. He married, probably before this time, Alice the daughter of Dr. Leonard Hutton, vicar of Flower, or Flore in Northamptonshire, who had been his contemporary at the university, and with whom he appears to have renewed his acquaintance during his Iter Boreale. By this wife he had a son, named after his grandfather Vincent, to whom he addresses some lines of parental advice and good wishes. Of the rest of his life, little can be now recovered. We have already seen that he invited Ben Jonson to Oxford and procured him a master's degree. He died July 28, 1635, and was buried at the upper end of the choir of the cathedral church of Norwich, with the following inscription on a brass-plate.

Ricardus Corbet, Theologiæ Doctor,
Ecclesia Cathedralis Christi Oxoniensis
Primum Alumnus, deinde Decanus, exinde
Episcopus, illinc huc translatus, et
Hinc in cælum Jul. 28, 1635.

Besides his son Vincent, he had a daughter, named Alice. They were both living in 1642, when their grandmother Anne Hutton made her will, and the son administered to it in 1648, but no memorial can be found of their future history. It would appear that his wife died before him, as in his will he committed his children to the care of their grandmother.

His most accurate biographer, Mr. Gilchrist, to whom this sketch is greatly indebted, has collected many particulars illustrative of his character, which are, upon the whole, favourable. Living in turbulent times, when the church was assailed from every quarter, he conducted himself with great moderation towards the recusants, or puritans; and although he could not disobey, yet contrived to soften by a gracious pleasantry of manner, the harsher orders received from the metropolitan Laud. In his principles he inclined to the Arminianism of Laud, in opposition to the Calvinism of Laud's predecessor archbishop Abbot, and it is evident from his poems, entertained a hearty contempt for the puritans, who, however, could not reproach him for persecution. As he published no theological works we are unable to judge of his talents in his proper profession, but his munificence in matters which regarded the church has been justly extolled. When St. Paul's cathedral stood in need of repairs, he not only contributed four hundred pounds from his own purse, but dispersed an epistle to the clergy of his diocese soliciting their assistance. This epistle, which Mr. Gilchrist has published, is highly characteristic of his propensity to humour, as well as of the quaint and quibbling style of his age. The following short specimen comes nearer to our own times, and will be easily understood by the dealers in fashionable chapels.

"I am verily persuaded, were it not for the pulpit and the pews (I do not now mean the altar and the font for the two sacraments, but for the pulpit and the stools as you call them) many churches had been down that stand. Stately pews are now become tabernacles, with rings and curtains to them. There wants nothing but beds to hear the word of God on; we have casements, locks and keys, and cushions: I had almost said, bolsters and pillows: and for those we love the church, I will not guess what is done within them, who sits, stands, or lies asleep, at prayers, communion, &c. but this I dare

say, they are either to hide some vice, or to proclaim one: to hide disorder, or proclaim pride."

Wood has insinuated that he was unworthy to be made a bishop, and it must be owned he often betrayed a carelessness and indifference to the dignity of his public character. Of this we have abundant proof, if credit be due to Aubrey's MSS. in the Ashmolean Museum, from which Mr. Headley made the following extract.

"After he was doctor of divinity, he sang ballads at the Crosse at Abingdon; on a market-day he and some of his comrades were at the taverne by the Crosse, (which, by the way, was then the finest of England: I remember it when I was a freshman: it was admirable curious Gothicque architecture, and fine figures in the nitches; 'twas one of those built by king......... for his queen.) The ballad-singer complayned he had no custome-he could not put off his ballads. The jolly doctor puts off his gowne, and puts on the ballad-singer's leathern jacket, and being a handsome man, and a rare full voice, he presently vended a great many, and had a great audience.

"After the death of Dr. Goodwin, he was made deane of Christ-Church. He had a good interest with great men, as you may finde in his poems; and that with the then great favourite the duke of Bucks, his excellent wit ever 't was of recommendation to him. I have forgot the story; but at the same time Dr. Fell thought to have carried it, Dr. Corbet put a pretty trick on him to let him take a journey to London for it, when he had alreadie the graunt of it.

"His conversation was extreme pleasant. Dr. Stubbins was one of his cronies; he was a jolly fat doctor, and a very good house-keeper. As Dr. Corbet and he were riding in Lob Lane in wet weather, ('t is an extraordinary deepe dirty lane,) the coach fell, and Corbet said, that Dr. S. was up to the elbows in mud, and he was up to the elbows in Stubbins.

"A. D. 1628, he was made bishop of Oxford; and I have heard that he had an admirable grave and venerable aspect.

"One time as he was confirming, the country people pressing in to see the ceremonie, said he, 'Beare off there! or I'll confirm ye with my staffe.'—Another time, being to lay his hand on the head of a man very bald, he turns to his chaplaine, and said, 'Some dust, Lushington,' to keepe his hand from slipping. There was a man with a venerable beard: said the bishop, You, behind the beard!'

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"His chaplaine, Dr. Lushington, was a very learned and ingenious man, and they loved one another. The bishop would sometimes take the key of the wine-cellar, and he and his chaplaine would go and lock themselves in and be merry: then first he layes down his episcopal hood, There layes the doctor;' then he putts off his gowne, There layes the bishop;" then t' was, 'Here's to thee, Corbet ;'-' Here's to thee, Lushington.""

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The following early specimen of his humour was copied by Mr. Gilchrist from a collection of "Mery Passages and Jeastes," Harl. MS. No. 6395: "Ben Jonson was at a tavern, and in comes bishop Corbet (but not so then) into the next room. Ben Jonson calls for a quart of raw wine, and gives it to the tapster. Sirrah!' says he, carry this to the gentleman in the next chamber, and tell him I sacrifice my service to him.' The fellow did, and in those terms. 'Friend!' says bishop Corbet, I thank him for his love; but pr'ythee tell him from me that he is mistaken, for sacrifices are always burnt.'"

Fuller says of him that he was " of a courteous courage, and no destructive na

ture to any who offended him, counting himself plentifully repaired with a jest upon him."

His poems after passing through three editions, were lately very carefully revised and published by Mr. Gilchrist, with the addition of an excellent life, notes and illustrations. The liberality of Messrs Longman, the proprietors of this edition, has enabled me to avail myself of Mr. Gilchrist's text, and a part of his notes, which are distinguished by his initial.

As a poet, it will not be found that Corbet stands eminently distinguished. His thoughts, however, are often striking and original, although delivered in the uncouth language of his times, and seldom indebted to correctness of versification. His faults are in general those of the age in which he wrote, and if he fills no conspicuous place in poetical history, it ought not to be forgot that he wrote for the amusement of the moment, and made no pretensions to the veneration of posterity. His principal objects were gaiety and merriment at the expense of the more glaring follies of his day; of his serious efforts, it may be justly said that his feeling was without affectation and his panegyric without servility.

TO THE READER.

(FROM EDITION 1648.)

READER,

I HEERE offer to view a collection of certaine pieces of poetry, which have flowne from hand to hand, these many yeares, in private papers, but were never fixed for the publique eie of the worlde to looke upon, till now'. If that witt which runnes in every veyne of them seeme somewhat out of fashion, because tis neither amorous nor obscene, thou must remember that the author, although scarse a divine when many of them were written, had not only so masculine but even so modest a witt also, that he would lett nothing fall from his pen but what he himselfe might owne, and never blush, when he was a bishop; little imagining the age would ever come, when his calling should prove more out of fashion than his witt could. As concerning any thing else to be added in commendation of the anthor, I shall never thinke of it; for as for those men who did knowe him, or ever heard of him, they need none of my good opinion: and as for those who knew him not, and never so much as heard of him, I am sure he needs none of theirs. Farewell.

1 From hence it should seem that the edition 1647 was not published at the time this preface was written. G.

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