"Strike him," quoth be, "and it will turne to ayre; | Crosse your selves thrice and strike it. "Strike that dare,"

Thought I," for sure this massy forrester
In troakes will prove the better conjurer."
But 't was a gentle keeper, one that knew
Humanity, and manners where they grew;
And rode along soe farr till he could say,
"See yonder Bosworth stands, and this your way."
And now when we had swett 'twixt sunn and sunn,
And eight miles long to thirty broad had spun ;
We learne the just proportion from hence
Of the diameter and circumference.

That night yet made amends; our meat and sheetes
Were farr above the promise of those streetes;
Those howses, that were tilde with straw and mosse,
Profest but weake repaire for that day's losse
Of patience: yet this outside lets us know,
The worthyest things make not the bravest show:
The shott was easy; and what concernes us more,
The way was so; mine host doth ride before.
Mine host was full of ale and history;
And on the morrow when he brought us nigh
Where the two Roses 14 joyn'd, you would suppose
Chaucer nere made the Romant of the Rose.
Heare him. "See ye yon wood? There Richard lay,
With his whole army: looke the other way,
And loe where Richmond in a bed of gorsse
Encampt himselfe ore night, and all his force:
Upon this hill they mett." Why, he could tell
The inch where Richmond stood, where Richard fell:
Besides what of his knowledge he could say,
He had authentieke notice from the play;
Which I might guesse, by 's mustring up the ghost,
And policyes, not incident to hosts;
But cheifly by that one perspicuous thing,
Where he mistooke a player for a king.
For when he would have sayd, "King Richard dyed,
And call'd-A horse! a horse!"-he, "Burbidge"
cry'de 1.

Howere his talke, his company pleas'd well;
His mare went truer than his chronicle;
And even for conscience sake, unspurr'd, unbeaten,
Brought us six miles, and turn'd tayle at Nuneaten.
From thence to Coventry, where we scarcely dine;
Our stomackes only warm'd with zeale and wine:
And then, as if we were predestin'd forth,
Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth.
The keeper of the castle was from home,
Soe that halfe mile we lost; yet when we come
An host receiv'd us there, wee'l nere deny him,
My lord of Leister's man; the parson by him,
Who had no other proofe to testify

He serv'd the Lord, but age and baudery 16.
Away, for shame, why should foure miles devide
Warwicke and us? They that have horses ride.
A short mile from the towne, an humble shrine
At foote of an high rock consists, in signe

14 Bosworth field. Edit. 1648. G.

15 From this passage we learn that Richard Burbage, the alter Roscius of Camden, was the original representative of Shakespeare's Richard the Third. He was buried in the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, as Mr. Chalmers discovered, on the 16th of March, 1618-19. G.

16 The clerical profligate thus gibbeted for the example of posterity was John Bust, inducted the 8th of April, 1611. G.

Of Guy and his devotions; who there stands
Ugly and huge, more then a man ou's hands:
-His helmet steele, his gorgett mayl, his sheild
Brass, made the chappell fearefull as a feild.
And let this answere all the pope's complaints;
We sett up gyants though we pull downe saintes.
Beyond this, in the roadway as we went,
A pillar stands, where this Colossus leant;
Where he would sigh and love, and, for hearts ease,
Oftimes write verses (some say) such as these:
"Here will I languish in this silly bower,
Whilst my true love triumphes in yon high tower."
No other hinderance now, but we may passe
Cleare to our inne: oh there an hostesse was,
To whome the castle and the dun cow are
Sights after dinner; she is morning ware.
Her whole behaviour borrowed was, and mist,
Halfe foole, halfe puppet, and her pace betwixt
Measure and jigge; her court'sy was an honour;
Her gate, as if her neighbour had out-gon her.
She was barrd up in whale-bones which doe lesse
None of the whale's length; for they reach'd her

knees:

Off with her head, and then she hath a middle:
As her wast stands, she lookes like the new fiddle,'
The favorite Theorbo, (trath to tell ye,)
Whose neck and throat are deeper then the belly.
Have you seene monkyes chain'd about the loynes,
Or pottle-potts with rings? Just soe she joynes
Her selfe together: a dressing she doth love
In a small print below, and text above.
What though her name be King, yet 't is noe treason,
Nor breach of statute, for to aske the reason
Of her brancht ruffe, a cubit every poke;

I seeme to wound her, but she strook the stroke
At our departure; and our worshipps there
Pay'd for our titles deare as any where:
Though beadles and professors both have done,
Yet every inne claimes augmentation.
Please you walke ont and see the castle1? Come,
The owner saith, it is a scholler's home;

A place of strength and health: in the same fort,
You would conceive a castle and a court.
The orchards, gardens, rivers, and the aire,
Doe with the trenches, rampires, walls, compare:
It seemes nor art nor force can intercept it,
As if a lover built, a souldier kept it.

Up to the tower, though it be steepe and high,
We doe not climbe but walke; and though the eye
Seeme to be weary, yet our feet are still
In the same posture cozen'd up the hill:
And thus the workeman's art deceaves our sence,
Making those rounds of pleasure a defence.
As we descend, the lord of all this frame,
The honourable chancellour, towards us came ".
Above the hill there blew a gentle breath,
Yet now we see a gentler gale beneath.

The phrase and wellcome of this knight did make
The seat more elegant; every word he spake
Was wine and musick, which he did expose
To us, if all our art could censure those.
With him there was a prelate, by his place
Arch-deacon to the byshopp, by his face
A greater man; for that did counterfeit
Lord abbot of some convent standing yet,

17 Warwick castle. Edit. 1648. G.

13 Fulke Greville, lord Brooke. G.

19 Arch deacon Burton. Edit. 1648. G.

A corpulent relique: marry and 't is sinne
Some Puritan gets not his face call'd in;
Amongst leane brethren it may scandall bring,
Who seeke for parity in every thing.
For us, let him enjoy all that God sends,
Plenty of flesh, of livings, and of freinds.
Imagine here us ambling downe the street,
Circling in Flower, making both ends meet:
Where we fare well foure dayes, and did complain,
Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine:
And on the feast of Barthol'mew we try
What revells that saint keepes at Banbury 20.
In th' name of God, amen First to begin,
The altar was translated to an inne;
We lodged in a chappell by the signe,
But in a banquerupt taverne by the wine:
Besides, our horses usage made us thinke

'T was still a church, for they in coffins drinke 21;
As if 't were congruous that the ancients lye
Close by those alters in whose faith they dye.
Now ye beleeve the church hath good varietye
Of monuments, when inns have such satiety;
But nothing lesse: ther's no inscription there,
But the church-wardens' names of the last yeare:
Instead of saints in windowes and on walls,
Here bucketts hang, and there a cobweb falls :
Would you not sweare they love antiquity,
Who brush the quire for perpetuity?
Whilst all the other pavement and the floore
Are supplicants to the surveyor's power

Of the high wayes, that he would gravell keepe;
For else in winter sure it will be deepe.
If not for God's, for Mr. Wheatlye's sake
Leveil the walkes; suppose these pittfalls make
Him spraine a lecture, or misplace a joynt
In his long prayer, or his fiveteenth point:
Thinke you the dawes or stares can sett him
right?

Surely this sinne upon your heads must light.
And say, beloved, what unchristian charme
Is this? you have not left a legg or arme
Of an apostle: think you, were they whole,
That they would rise, at least assume a soule?
If not, 't is plaine all the idolatry
Lyes in your folly, not th' imagery.
T is well the pinnacles are falne in twaine;
For now the Divell, should he tempt againe,
Hath noe advantage of a place soe high:
Fooles, he can dash you from your gallery,
Where all your medly meeté; and doe compare,
Not what you learne, but who is longest there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptist, Brownist,
Like a grand sallet: Tinkers, what a towne ist?
The crosses also, like old stumps of trees,

Are stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees;
-Carry noe heads above ground: they which tell,
That Christ hath nere descended into Hell,
But to the grave, his picture buried have
In a far deeper dungeon thau a grave:
That is, descended to endure what paines
The Divell can think, or such disciples' braines.
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

G.

20 At the signe of the Alter-stone. Edit. 1648. G.

21 Which serve for troughs in the backside. Ib.

DAWSON the butler's dead: although I think
Poets were ne're infus'd with single drink,
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,
Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear.
Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall
In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal
Than when our beer was good, that John may float
To Styx in beer, and lift up Charon's boat
With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran
With claret at the coronation,

So let your channels flow with single tiff,
For John, I hope, is crown'd: take off your whiff,
Ye men of rosemary, and drink up all,
Remembring 't is a butler's funeral:
Had he been master of good double beer,
My life for his, John Dawson had been here.

ON

GREAT TOM OF CHRIST-CHURCH.

BE, dumb, ye infant-chimes, thump not your mettle, That ne're out-ring a tinker and his kettle;

Cease, all you petty larums; for, to day
Is young Tom's resurrection from the clay :
And know, when Tom rings out his knells,
The best of you will be but dinner-bells.
Old Tom's grown young again, the fiery cave
Is now his cradle, that was erst his grave:
He grew up quickly from his mother Earth,
For, all you see was but an hour's birth;
Look on him well, my life I dare engage,
You ne're saw prettier baby of his age.
Some take his measure by the rule, some by
The Jacob's staff take his profundity,
And some his altitude; but some do swear
'Young Tom's not like the old: but, Tom, ne're fear
The critical geometrician's line,

If thou as loud as e're thou did ring'st nine.
Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground,
But straight St. Marie's tenor lost his sound.
O how this may-pole's heart did swell

With full main sides of joy, when that crackt bell
Choakt with annoy, and's admiration,
Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation.
Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o're
What he ne're saw in many years before;
But when he saw the old foundation,
With some like hope of preparation,

He burst with grief; and lest he should not have
Due pomp, he's his own bell-man to the
And that there might of him be still some mention,
grave:
He carried to his grave a new invention.
They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins,
And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins;
But Sander Hill swore twice or thrice by Heaven,
He ne're set such a loaf into the oven.
And Tom did Sanders vex, his Cyclops maker,
As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker;
Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride,
When thou this motto shalt have on thy side:
"Great world! one Alexander conquer'd thee,
And two as mighty men scarce conquer'd me."
Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn,
Though hang'd, drawn, quarter'd, till they did thee
burn:

Yet not for this, nor ten times more be sorry,
Since thou was martyr'd for the churche's glory;
But for thy meritorious suffering,
Thou shortly shalt to Heaven in a string :

And though we griev'd to see thee thump'd and
bangd,

We'll all be glad, Great Tom, to see thee hang'd.

R. C.

WHEN too much zeal doth fire devotion,
Love is not love, but superstition:
Even so in civil duties, when we come
Too oft, we are not kind, but troublesome.
Yet as the first is not idolatry,

So is the last but grieved industry:

And such was mine, whose strife to honour you By overplus, hath rob'd you of your due.

FAREWELL rewards and Faeries,

Good bouswives now may say,
For now foule slutts in daries
Doe fare as well as they.

And though they sweepe theyr bearths no less
Then maydes were wont to doe,
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.
And all your children sprung from thence
Are now growne Puritanes ;
Who live as changelings ever since

For love of your demaines.

At morning and at evening both
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleepe or sloth
These prettie ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Ciss to milking rose,

Then merrily merrily went theyre tabor,
And nimbly went theyre toes.

Wittness those rings and roundelayes

Of theirs, which yet remaine,
Were footed in queene Marie's dayes
On many a grassy playne;
But since of late, Elizabeth,

And later, James came in,
They never daunc'd on any heath
As when the time hath bin.

By which we note the Faries

Were of the old profession; Theyre songs were Ave Maryes; 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, And whoe so kept not secretly Theyre mirth was punisht sure; It was a just and christian deed

To pinch such blacke and blew:
O how the common welth doth need
Such justices as you!

Now they have left our quarters
A register they have,
Who looketh to theyre charters,
A man both wise and grave;

An hundred of theyre merry prancks

By one that I could name Are kept in store, conn twenty thanks To William for the same.

I marvell who his cloake would turne
When Pucke had led him round,
Or where those walking fires would burne,
Where Cureton would be found;
How Broker would appeare to be,
For whom this age doth mourne;
But that theyre spiritts live in thee,
In thee, old William Chourne.

To William Chourne of Stafford shire

Give laud and prayses due,
Who every meale can mend your cheare
With tales both old and true:
To William all give audience,
And pray ye for his noddle,

For all the Farie's evidence
Were lost, if that were addle.

A NON SEQUITUR.

(FROM "WIT RESTORED," 8vo. 1658.)

MARKE! how the lanterns clowd mine eyes,
See where a moon-drake 'gins to rise;
Saturne crawls much like an iron catt,
To see the naked moone in a slipshott hatt.
Thunder-thumping toadstools crock the pots
To see the mermaids tumble;
Leather cat-a-mountaines shake their heels,
To heare the gosh-hawke grumble.
The rustic threed

Begins to bleed,

And cobwebs elbows itches;
The putrid skyes

Eat mulsacke pyes,

Backed up in logicke breches.

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 flax.

NONSENCE.

(ASHMOLE'S MUSEUM, a. 37.)

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.

Like to the fiery tombstone of a cabbage,
Or like a crabbe-louse with its bag and baggage,
Or like the four square circle of a ring,
Or like to hey dinge, dingea dingea dinge:
Even such is he who spake, and yet no doubt
Spake to small purpose, when his tongue 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,

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.

1 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.

2 Discite quam parvo liceat producere vitam, Et quantum natura petat.

Lucan, iv. ver. 377.

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;
Nor hath the darkenesse power to usher in

Feare to those sheets that knowe no sinne:
But still thy wife, by chast intention led,
Gives thee each night a maidenhead.

For where pure thoughts are led by godly feare,
Trew love, not lust at all, comes there;
And in that sense the chaster thoughts commend
Not halfe so much the act as end:

That, what with dreams in sleepe of rurall blisse,
Night growes farre shorter than she is.
The damaske meddowes, and the crawlinge streames,
Sweeten, and make soft thy dreams.
The purlinge springes, groves, birdes, and well-
weav'd bowers,

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; Whilst Faunus, in the vision, vowes to keepe

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

meet

To make sleepe not so sound as sweet. Nor can these figures in thy rest endeere, As not to up when chanticleere

Speaks the last watch, but with the dawne dost rise
To worke, but first to sacrifice:

Makinge thy peace with Heaven for some late fault,
With holy meale and cracklinge salt. [us,
That done, thy painfull thumbe this sentence tells
God for our labour all thinges sells us.
Nor are thy daylye and devout affayres

Attended with those desperate cares

Th' industriouse marchant hath, who for to finde
Gold, runneth to the furthest Inde',
And home againe tortur'd with fear doth hyc.
Untaught to suffer povertye.

But you at home blest with sccurest ease,
Sitt'st and beleev'st that there are seas,
And watrye dangers; but thy better hap

But sees these thinges within thy mapp,
And viewinge them with a more safe survaye,
Mak'st easy Feare unto thee say,

A heart thrice wail'd with oake and brass that man
Had, first durst plough the ocean.

But thou at home, without or tyde or gale,
Canst in thy mapp securely sayle,
Viewinge the parted countryes, and so guesse
By their shades their substances;
And from their compasse borrowing advise,
Buy'st travayle at the lowest price.

Nor are thy eares so seald but thou canst heare
Far more with wonder than with feare.

TO

THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME'.

THOU, once a body, now but aire,
Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer,
From Carfax come;

And patch me up a zealous lay,
With an old ever and for ay,
Or, all and some.

Or such a spirit lend me,
As may a hymne downe send me,
To purge my braine:
So, Robert, looke behinde thee,
Least Turke or Pope doc find thee,
And goe to bed againe,

AN

EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCE'.

HERE, for the nonce,
Came Thomas Jonce,

In St. Giles church to lye.
None Welsh before,
None Welshman more,

Till Shon Clerk die.

I'll tole the bell
I'll ring his knell;
He died well,

He's sav'd from Hell;
And so farwel

Tom Jonce.

TO THE

LADYES OF THE NEW DRESSE,

THAT WEARE THEIR GORGETS AND RAYLES DOWNE TO THEIR WASTES.

LADYES, that weare black cipress-vailes
Turn'd lately to white linnen-rayles,
And to your girdle weare your bands,
And shew your armes instead of hands;
What can you doe in Lent so meet
As, fittest dress, to weare a sheet?
T' was once a band, 't is now a cloake,
An acorne one day proves an oke:
Weare but your linnen to your feet,
And then your band will prove a sheet.
By which devise, and wise excesse,
You'l doe your penance in a dresse;
And none shall know, by what they see,
Which lady's censur'd, and which free.

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.