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A corpulent relique: marry and 't is sinne Of seeing it remaines; ere long you shall
Some Puritan gets not his face call'd in;

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.
The altar was translated to an inne;

Hor. lib. i. sat. 4.
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 drinke21 ;

As if 't were congruous that the ancients lye

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.
Whilst all the other pavement and the floore
Are supplicants to the surveyor's power
Of the high wayes, that lie would gravell keepe;
For else in winter sure it will be deepe.

If not for God's, for Mr. Wheatlye's sake
Levell the walkes; suppose these pittfalls make If gentleness could tame the Fates, or wit
Him spraine a lecture, or misplace a joynt

Deliver man, Bolings had not di'd yet;
In his long prayer, or his fiveteenth point:

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.

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

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
For now the Divell, should he tempt againe,
Hath noe advantage of a place soe high :

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;




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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
Thc Jacob's staff take his profundity,


And some bis altitude; but some do swear
Young Tom's not like the old: but, Tom, ne're fear

Farewell rewards and Faeries,
The critical geometrician's line,

Good bouswives now may say, If thou as loud as e're thou did ring'st nine.

For now foule slutts in daries
Tom did no sooner peep from under-ground,

Doe fare as well as they.
But straight St. Marie's tenor lost his sound.
O how this may-pole's heart did swell

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,
Rung like a quart-pot to the congregation.

Finds sixe-pence in her shoe?
Tom went his progress lately, and lookt o're
What he ne're saw in many years before ;

Lament, lament, old abbies,

The Faries lost command;
But when he saw the old foundation,
With some like hope of preparation,

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
He carried to his grave a new invention.
They drew his brown-bread face on pretty gins,

For love of your demaines.
And made him stalk upon two rolling-pins ;

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;
As much as he did Sander Hill, the baker;

When Tom came home froin labour,
Therefore, loud thumping Tom, be this thy pride, Or Ciss to milking rose,
When thou this motto shalt have on thy side:

Then merrily merrily went theyre tabor, “ Great world! one Alexander conquer'd thee,

And nimbly went theyre toes.
And two as mighty men scarce conquer'd me."
Brave constant spirit, none could make thee turn,

Wittness those rings and roundelayes
Though hang'd, drawn, quarter'd, till they did thee Of theirs, which yet remaine,

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 songs were Ave Maryes;

Theyre daunces were procession :

But now, alas! they all are dead,
R. C.

Or gone beyond the seas;

Or farther for religion fled,
When too much zeal doth fire devotion,

Or elce they take theyre ease.
Love is not love, but superstition:
Even so in civil duties, when we come

A tell-tale in theyre company
Too oft, we are not kind, but troublesome.

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
By overplus, hath rob'd you of your due.

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

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.


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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 a 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 contine'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 flax.



* 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,
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.



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;

Nộr 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 halfe 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 bebinde 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 Jambe with many a

Woo'd to come sucke the milkey teate;

EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCES. 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
With holy meale and cracklinge salt. [us,

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

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

Gold, runneth to the furthest Inde },
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,

And watrye dangers; but thy better hap
But sees these thinges within thy mapp,

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.
Per mare pauperiem fugiens, per saxa, per
Hor. Epist. 1.

* 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.





(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
You may be censured, we go free.

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

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

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

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.

112. G.

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