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An hundred of theyre merry prạncks

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
By one that I could name

Or like a crabbe-louse with its bag and baggage,
Are kept in store, conn twenty thanks Or like the four square circle of a ring,
To William for the same.

Or like to hey dinge, dingea dingea dinge:

Even such is he who spake, and yet no doubt I marvell who his cloake would turne

Spake to small purpose, when his tougue was out.
When Pucke had led him round,
Or where those walking fires would burne,

Like to a faire, fresh, faiding, withered rose,
Where Cureton would be found;

Or lyke to rhyming verse that runs in prose,
How Broker would appeare to be,

Or lyke the stumbles of a tynder box,
For whom this age doth mourne;

Or lyke a man that's sound yet hath the pox:
But that theyre spiritts live in thee,

Even such is he who dyed, and yet did laugh
In thee, old William Chourne.

To see these lines writt for his epitaph.

THE COUNTRY LIFE',

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Thrice and above blest (my soul's halfe!) art thou

In thy though last yet better vowe,
Canst leave the cyttye with exchange to see

The country's sweet simplicitie,
And to knowe and practise, with intent

To growe the sooner innocent,
By studdyinge to knowe vertue, and to ayme

More at her nature than her name.
The last is but the least, the first doth tell

Wayes not to live, but to live well.
And both are knowne to thee, who now canst live,

Led by thy conscience, to give
Justice 2 to soon pleas'd Nature, and to showe

Wisdome and she togeather goe,
And keepe one center : this with that conspires

To teach man to confine's desires;
To knowe that riches have their proper stint

In the contented minde, not mint;
And canst instruct, that those that have the itch

Of cravinge more, are never rich. (prevent
These thinges thou knowst to th' height, and dost

The mange, because thou art content
With that Heaven gave thee with a sparinge hand,

More blessed in thy brest than land,
To keepe but Nature even and upright,

To quench not cocker appetite.
The first is Nature's end ; this doth impart .

Least thankes to Nature, most to Art.
But thou canst tersely live, and satisfie

The bellye only, not the eye;
Keepinge the barkinge stomache meanly quiet

With a neat yet needfull dyett.
But that which most creates thy happy life,

Is the fruition of a wife,
Whom (starres consentinge with thy fate) thou hast

Gott, not so beautifull as chast.

Munday trenchers made good hay,
The lobster weares no dagger;
Meale-mouthed she-peacocke powle the starres,
And made the lowbell stagger.

Blew crocodiles foame in the toe,
Blind meale-bagges do follow the doe;
A ribb of apple braine spice

Will follow the Lancashire dice.
Harke ! how the chime of Plutoes pispot cracks,
To see the rainbowes wheele-gann made of filax.

NONSENCE.

(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, bas 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,
Or like a lobster clad in logicke breeches,
Or like the graye-furre of a crimson catt,
Or like the moone-calfe in a slip-shodde hatt :
Even such is he who never was begotten
Untill his children were both dead and rotten.

TO

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By whose warm'd side thou dost securely sleepe,

Whilst Love the centinell doth keepe
With those deeds done by day, which ne'er affright
The silken slumbers in the night;

THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME'.
Nor hath the darkenesse power to usher in
Feare to those sheets that knowe no sinne :

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,
And in that sense the chaster thonghts commend

Or, all and some.
Not balfe so much the act as end :
That, what with dreams in sleepe of rurall blisse, Or such a spirit lend me,
Night growes farre shorter than she is.

As may a hymne downe send me,
Thedamaske meddowes, and the crawlinge streames,

To purge my braine : Sweeten, and make soft thy dreams.

So, Robert, looke behinde thee, The purlinge springes, groves, birdes, and well- Least Turke or Pope doe find thee, weav'd bowers,

And goe to bed againe.
With fields enamelled with flowers,
Present thee shapes, whilst phantasye discloses

Millions of lillyes mixt with roses.
Then dreame thou hear'st the lambe with many a

bleat
Woo'd to come sucke the milkey teate;

EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCE'.
Whilst Faunus, in the vision, vowes to keepe

From ravenouse wolfe the woolley sheepe;
With thowsand such enchantinge dreames, which

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,
Speaks the last watch, but with the dawne dost rise

Till Shon Clerk die.
To worke, but first to sacrifice:
Makinge thy peace with Heaven for some late fault,

I'll tole the bell
Witb holy meale and cracklinge salt. [us,

l'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

Tom Jonce.
Th'industriouse marchant hath, who for to finde

Gold, runneth to the furthest Iude,
And home againe tortur'd with fear doth hye.

Untaught to suffer povertye.
But you at home blest with securest ease,
Sitt'st and beleev'st that there are seas,

LADYES OF THE NEW DRESSE,
And watrye dangers; but thy better hap

But sees tbese thinges within thy mapp,
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 wbite 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 feet, far more with wonder thau 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, » Impiger extremos currit mercator ad Indos, Which lady's censur'd, and which free. Per mare pauperiem fugiens, per saxa, per ignes. Hor. Epist. 1.

* See Warton's History of English Poetry, vol. iii. p. 170, 171. G. He contributed some of the Psalms in the Old Version. C.

A clergyman, and inhabitant of St. Giles's parish, Oxford. His proper name was Jones. G.

TO THE

THAT WEARE THEIR GORGETS AND RAYLES DOWNE TU

THEIR WASTES.

5

1

THE LADIES' ANSWER.

UPON FAIREFORD WINDOWES?. (Hant. Mss. No. 6396.)

(MISC. MSS. POEMS, MUS. BRIT. BIB. SLOAN. NO. 1446.) Blacks 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 sulien inke, yet (Fayreford) i A fitter dresse we have in Lent,

May rellish thy fair memory. so 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 hath 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 lore's sharpe but just decree

Such as Cheapside bath, where a press
You may be censured, we go free.

Of painted gallants, looking out,
Bedeck the casement rounde about.
But these have holy pbisnomy ;

Each paine instructs the laity
CORBET'S REPLY.

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 Yer 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 blemishes 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,
Read this reply—and take ytt not in scorne. Luoke up, one little pane inrouls

A fairer temple. Flinge a stone,
The church is out at the windowe Rowne.

Consider not, but aske your eies,
UPON FAIRFORD WINDOWS

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 downwards 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, his head and crown, Soe py'de, soe seeming, soe unsound

Like a 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 • Twenty-eight in number, and painted with the friend, Samuel Egerton Brydges, esq. vol. ii. p. ories of the Old and New Testament. C.

112. G.

So held from stoninge Christ; the winde

When I sack'd the sea ven-hill'd citly And boysterous tempests were so kinde,

I mett the great redd dragon: As on his image not to prey,

I kept him aloofe Whome both the winde and seas obey.

With the armour of proofe, At Momus' wish be not amaz'd;

Though here I have never a rag od.
For if each Christian's heart were glaz'd Boldly I preach, &c.
With such a windowe, then each brest
Might bee his owne evangelist.

With a fiery sword and targett
There fought I with this mouster :

But the sonnes of pride

My zeale deride,

And all my deedes misconster.
THE DISTRACTED PURITANE. Boldly I preach, &c.

I unhorst the whore of Babel
Am I madd, O noble Festus,

With a lannce of inspirations :
When zeale and godly knowledge

I made her stinke,
Have put me in hope

And spill her drinck
To deal with the pope,

In the cupp of abominations.
As well as the best in the colledge ?

Boldly I preach, &c.
Boldly I preach, hate a crosse, hate a surplice,
Miters, copes, and rotchets :

I have seene two in a vision,
Come heare me pray nine times a day,

With a flying booke betweene them: And fill your heads with crotchets.

I have bin in dispaire

Five times a yeare, In the house of pure Emanuel

And cur'd by reading Greenham.
I had my education;

Boldly I preach, &c.
Where my friends surmise

I observ'd in Perkin's Tables &
I dazeled mine eyes

The black lines of damnation :
With the light of revelation.

Those crooked veines Boldly I preach, &c.

Soe struck in my braines,

That I fear'd my reprobation.
They bound me like a bedlam,
They lash't my foure poore quarters;

Boldly I preach, &c.
Whilst this I endure,

In the holy tongue of Chanaan
Faith makes me sure

I plac'd my chiefest pleasure :
To be one of Foxe's martyrs.

Till I prickt my foote Boldly I preach, &c.

With an Hebrew roote,

That I bledd beyond all measure.
These injuryes I suffer

Boldly I preach, &c.
Through Anti-Christ's perswasions :
Take off this chaine,

I appear'd before the arch-bishopp,
Neither Rome vor Spaine

And all the high commission : Can resist my strong invasions.

I gave him noe grace, Boldly I preach, &c.

But told him to his face

That he favour'd superstition. Of the beast's ten hornes (God blesse us !) Boldly I preach, bate a crosse, hate a surplice

, I have knock 't off three already :

Miters, copes, and rotchets :
If they let me alone,

Come heare me pray nine times a day,
I'll leave him none;

And fill your heads with crotchets.
But they say I am too heady..
Boldly I preach, &c.

• An eminent divine of Cambridge. C.

3

THE

POEMS

OF

THOMAS CAREW.

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