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DR. CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

And thus we leave the blazers coming over,
For our portends are wise, and end at Dover:
And though we use no forward censuring,
Nor send our learned proctors to the king.
Yet every morning when the star doth rise,
There is no black for three hours in our eyes;
But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this light
All eyes turn upward, all are teale and white:
More it is doubtful that this prodigy
Will turne ten schools to one astronomy:
And the analysis we justly fear,

Since every art doth seek for rescue there;
Physicians, lawyers, glovers on the stall,
The shopkeepers speak mathematics all;
And though men read no gospels in these signes,
Yet all professions are become divines;
All weapons from the bodkin to the pike,
The mason's rule and taylor's yard alike
Take altitudes, and th' early fidling knaves
On fluits and hoboyes made them Jacobs-staves ;
Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive,
And every fist is made a prospective:
Burton to Gunter cants 2, and Burton hears
From Gunter, and th' exchange both tongue and ears
By carriage: thus doth mired Guy complain,
His waggon in their letters bears Charles-Wain,
Charles-Wain, to which they say the tayl will reach;
And at this distance they both hear and teach.
Now, for the peace of God and men, advise
(Thou that hast where-withall to make us wise)
Thine own rich studies, and deep Harriot's mine3,
In which there is no dross, but all refine:
O tell us what to trust to, lest we wax
All stiff and stupid with his parallax:
Say, shall the old philosophy be true?
Or doth he ride above the Moon, think you !
Is he a meteor forced by the Sun?

Or a first body from creation?

Hath the same star been object of the wonder
Of our forefathers? Shall the same come under
The sentence of our nephews Write and send,
Or else this star a quarrel doth portend.

DR. CORBET'S

JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.

I WENT from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride or fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do returne with half a nose
They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,
Upon a holy tide.

I on an ambling nag did jet,
I trust he is not paid for yet;

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And to St. Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Nostre Dame,

And spur'd him on each side.

The man that shows them snaffles:
Where who is apt for to beleeve,
May see our Ladie's right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;

2 William Burton is said, by Antony à Wood, to have been a pretender to astronomy, of which he published an Ephemeris in 1655.-Edmund Gunter, a mathematician of greater eminence, was astronomical professor of Gresham College, and eminent for his skill in the sciences: his publications were popular in his day. He died at Gresham College,

1626. G.

Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town,
When in the inn she lay.
Yet all the world knows that's a fable,
For so good clothes ne're lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.

No carpenter could by his trade
Gain so much coyn as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff.

Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit,
They may believe old Joseph did it,
'Cause he deserv'd enough.

3 Thomas Hariot, styled by Camden "Mathematicus Insignis," was a pensioner and companion of sir Walter Raleigh in his voyage to Virginia (1584), of which upon his return he published an account. He was held in high estimation by the earl of

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There many strange things are to see, The palace and great gallery,

The Place Royal doth excel : The new bridge, and the statues there, At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater, The steeple bears the bell.

For learning, th' universitie;
And for old clothes, the Frippery;

The house the queen did build. Saint Innocents, whose earth devoures Dead corps in four and twenty hours, And there the king was kill'd;

The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street,
The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet,
The Arsenal, no toy.
But if you'll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the king,
O 't is a hopeful boy.

He is of all his dukes and peers
Reverenc'd for much wit at 's years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pyes of clay,
O never king made such!

A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
'T is known to every one.
The duke of Guise gave him a parret,
And he had twenty cannons for it
For his new galeon.

O that I ere might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian Ruck!
I'de give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise, or Livine,

Or else I had ill luck..

Birds round about his chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand;
'T is his humility.
And if they do want any thing,
They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.

But now then, for these parts he must Be enstiled Lewis the Just,

Great Henry's lawful heir; When to his stile to add more words, They 'd better call him king of birds, Than of the great Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty quirk, Taught him by nature, how to work In iron with much ease. Sometimes to the forge he goes, There he knocks, and there he blows,

And makes both locks and keys:

Which puts a doubt on every one,
Whether he be Mars or Vulcan's son,
Some few believe his mother:
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolv'd, and so think still,

As much the one as th' other,

The people, too, dislike the youth,
Alledging reasons, for, in truth,

Mothers should honour'd be
Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she lov'd his father,
And that's notoriously.

His queen, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She 's nere like to be mother:
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.

Now why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina's mate;
And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?

'T were charity for to be known
To love others' children as his own,
And why? it is no shame;
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,

Who, men thought, did the same.

AN EXHORTATION

TO MR. JOHN HAMMON, MINISTER IN THE PARISH OF BEWDLY,

FOR THE BATTERING DOWNE OF THE VANITYES OF THE GENTILES, WHICH ARE COMPREHENDED IN A MAYPOLE. WRITTEN BY A ZEALOUS BROTHER FROM THE BLACKFRYERS.

THE mighty zeale which thou hast new put on,
Neither by prophet nor by prophet's sonne
As yet prevented, doth transport me 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 Sternbold 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 Satan's cloven one.
Such is thy zeale, so well dost thou express it, [it,
That, (wer't not like a charme,) I'de say, Christ blesse
I needs must say 't is a spirituall thing
To raile against a bishopp, or the king;
Nor are they meane adventures we have bin in,
About the wearing of the churche's 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, than from the wood 't was brought,
Whose head the idoll-maker's hand doth croppe,
Where a lew'd bird, towring upon the topp,
Lookes like the calfe at Horeb; at whose roote
The unyoak't youth doth exercise his foote;
Or whether it reserve his boughes, befriended
By neighb'ring bushes, and by them attended:
How canst thou chuse but seeing it complaine
That Baall's worship't in the groves againę

Tell me how curst an egging, what a sting Of lust do their unwildly daunces bring?

The simple wretches say they meane no harme,
They doe not, surely; but their actions warme
Our purer blouds the more for Satan 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 sets them in this Gentiles' vanity? When in our sinagogue we rayle at sinne, And tell men of the faults which they are in, With hand and voice so following our theames, That we put out the side-men from their dreames. Sounds not the pulpett, which we then be-labour, Better, and holyer, than doth the tabour? Yet such is unregenerate man's folly,

He loves the wicked noyse, and hates the holy. Routes and wilde pleasures doe invite temptation, And this is dangerous for our damnation; We 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 own 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 Uriah's lovely wife,

Of Thamer, and her lustfull brother's strife; Then, underneath the hedge that woos them next, They may sitt downe, and there act out the text. Nor do we want, how ere we live austeere, In winter sabbath-nights our lusty cheere; And though the pastor's grace, which oft doth hold Halfe an howre long, make the provision cold, We 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 we diversly dilate, Wrangling indeed for heat of zeale, not hate : When at the length an unappeased doubt Fiercely comes in, and then the light goes out; Darkness thus workes our peace, and we containe Our fyery spiritts till we see againė. 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 be too strong; his kingdome's here: Few are the righteous now, nor do I know How we shall ere this idoll overthrow; Since our sincerest patron is deceas't, The number of the righteous is decreast. But we do hope these times will on, and breed A faction mighty for us; for indeede We labour all, and every sister joynes To have regenerate babes spring from our loynes :

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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 ladie's eldest sonne Verses, which he will turn 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 griefe's vitall part
Consists in nature, not in art:
And verses that are studied
Mourne for themselves, not for the dead.
Heark, the queene's epitaph shall be
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
Fair 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 on 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.

AN ELEGIE

UPON THE DEATH OF HIS OWNE father.

VINCENT Corbet, farther knowne By Poynter's 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, be liv'd more; And number him by doeing good, He liv'd their age beyond the flood. Should we undertake his story, Truth would seeme fain'd, and plainesse glory : Besides, this tablet were too small, Add to the pillars 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 Nature's factour here, And legier lay for every sheire; To supply the ingenious wants Of some spring-fruits, and forraigne plants. Simple he was, and wise withall; His purse nor base nor prodigall; Poorer in substance than in friends; Future and publicke were his endes; His conscience, like his dyett, such As neither tooke nor left two 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 onely to enclose? Or with their roast 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 griev'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 be written, and not read.

AN ELEGIE

UPON THE DEATH OF LADY HADDINGTON, WIFE OF JOHN RAMSAY, VISCOUNT HADDINGTON, WHO DYED OF THE SMALL POXx.

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 to write with the state's 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 wait on it:
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though 't were praise enough (with them whose
And vertue's nothing but an ample name) [fame
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, bad 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 own wild 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 she but bring them up, that brought them
forth:

She would have taught them by a thousand strains,
(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 she hath chang'd her window for a grave;
From whence she 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 baire?
Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe,
And, by tart similyes, repentance draw [such
From those, whom preachers had given ore? Evea
Whom esermons could not reach, her arrowes touch.
Hereafter, fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile and no man aske the cause:
He of fourescore, three night capps, and two haires,
Shall marry her of twenty, and get beyres
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, [pease,
That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow'st
And leav'st such printes on beauty, that dost come
As clouted shon do on a floore 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.

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Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice,
There thou shalt practice on more than one vice.
There's wherewithall to entertaine the pox,
There's more than reason, there 's rime for 't, the
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 she!"
Or, "What a peece, ere she 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 she were deform'd, thy tyranny
Were then within the rules of charity.

But apon one whose beauty was above
All sort of art, whose love was more than 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

CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY

AT WOODSTOCK.

Ir we, 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 we with vizards hadd enjoy'd, We are not sorry; for such witts as these Libell our windowes oft'ner than 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; We are not greatly sorry; but if any, Free from the yoake of the ingaged many, [by, That dare speake truth even when their head stands Or when the senior's 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 griev'd, then downe proud spirit; If not, know, number never conquer'd merit.

A LETTER

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

I'VE read of ilands floating and remov'd In Ovid's time, but never heard it prov'd

Till now that fable, by the prince and you,
By your transporting England, is made true.
We are not where we were; the dog-starr raignes
No cooler in our climate, than in Spaine's;
The selfe same breath, same ayre, same heate, same
burning,

Is here, as there; will be, till your returning:
Come, e're the card be alter'd, lest perhaps
Your stay may make an errour in our mapps;
Lest England should be found, when you shall passe,
A thousand miles more southward than it was.
Oh that you were, my lord, oh that you were
Now in Blackfryers, in a disguis'd haire1;
That you were Smith againe, two houres to be
In Paul's next sunday, at full sea at three;
There you should heare the legend of each day,
The perills of your inne, and of your way;
Your enterprises, accidents, untill

You did arrive at court, and reach Madrill.
There your should heare how the state-grandees
flout you,

With their twice-double diligence about you;
How our environ'd prince walkes with a guard
Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr'd;
How not a chaplaine of his owne may stay
When he would heare a sermon preach'd, or pray.
You would be hungry, having din'd, to heare
The price of victuailes, and the scarcity, there;
As if the prince had ventur'd there his life
To make a famine, not to fetch a wife.
Your eggs (which might be addle too) are deare
As English capons; capons as sheepe, here;
No grass neither for cattle; for they say

It is not cut and made, grasse there grows hay:
That 't is soe seething hott in Spaine, they sweare
They never heard of a raw oyster there:
Your cold meat comes in reaking, and your wine
Is all burnt sack, the fire was in the vine;
Item, your pullets are distinguish't there
Into four quarters, as we carve the yeare,
And are a weeke a wasting: Munday noone
Tuesday a legg, and soe forth; Sunday more,
A wing; at supper something with a spoone;
The liver and a gizard betweene foure:
And for your mutton, in the best houshoulder
'Tis felony to cheapen a whole shoulder.
Lord! how our stomacks come to us againe,
When we conceive what snatching is in Spaine!
I, whilst I write, and doe the newes repeate,
Am forc't to call for breakfast in, and eate:
And doe you wonder at the dearth the while?
The flouds that make it run in th' middle ile,
Poets of Paul's, those of duke Humfry's messe,
That feede on nought but graves and emptinesse.
But heark you, noble sir, in one crosse weeke
My lord hath lost a thowsand pound at gleeke;
And though they doe allow but little meate,
They are content your losses should be great.
False, on my deauery! falser than your fare is;
Or than your difference with Cond' de Olivares,
Which was reported strongly for one tyde,
But, after six houres floating, ebb'd and dyde.
If God would not this great designe should be
Perfect and round without some knavery,
Nor that our prince should end this enterprize,
But for so many miles, so many lies:

1 The prince and Buckingham on their journey wore false beards and assumed the names of Jack and Tom Smith. G.

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