COMMENDATORY POEMS.

Still to be silent, or to write in prose, Were alike sloth, such as I leave to those Who either want the grace of wit, or have Untoward arguments: like him that gave Life to the flea, or who without a guest Would prove that famine was the only feast; Self tyrants, who their braines doubly torment, Both for their matter and their ornament. If these do stutter sometimes, and confesse That they are tired, we could expect no lesse. But when my matter is prepared and fit, When nothing’s wanting but an equal wit, I need no Muse’s help to ayde me on, Since that my subject is my Helicon. And such are you: O give me leave, dear sir, (He that is thankful is no flatterer,) To speak full truth: Wherever I find worth, I shew I have it if I set it forth: You read yourself in these; here you may see A ruder draft of Corbet’s infancy. For I professe, if ever I had thought Needed not blush if publish’d, were there ought Which was call’d mine durst beare a critic’s view, I was the instrument, but the author you. I need not tell you of our health, which here Must be presum’d, nor yet shall our good cheare Swell up my paper, as it has done me, Or as the Mayor’s feast does Stowe’s History: Without an early bell to make us rise, Health calls us up and novelty; our eyes Have divers objects still on the same ground, As if the Earth had each night walk’d her round To bring her best things hither: ’tis a place Not more the pride of shires then the disgrace, Which I’de not leave, had I my Dean to boot, For the large offers of the cloven-foot Unto our Saviour, but you not being here ’Tis to me, though a rare one, but a shire; A place of good earth, if compared with worse, Which hath a lesser part in Adam’s curse: Or, for to draw a simile from the High’st, Tis like unto salvation without Christ, A fairly situate prison: When again Shall I enjoy that friendship, and that braine? When shall I once more hear, in a few words, What all the learning of past times affords? Austin epitomiz’d, and him that can To make him clear contract Tertullian. But I detain you from them: Sir, adieu! You read their works, but let me study you.

Come all yee Muses and rejoice At your Apolloe’s happy choice; Phœbus has conquer’d Cupid’s charme; Fair Daphne flys into his arm. If Daphne be a tree, then mark, Apollo is become the barke. If Daphne be a branch of bay, He weares her for a crowne to-day: O happy bridegroom! which dost wed Thyself unto a virgin’s bed. Let thy love burne with hot desire, She lacks no oil to feed the fire. You know not poore Pigmalion’s lot, Nor have you a mere idol got. You no Ixion, you no proud Juno makes embrace a cloud. Looke how pure Diana’s skin Appeares as it is shadow’d in A chrystal streame; or look what grace Shines in fair Venus’ lovely face, Whilst she Adonis courts and woos; Such beauties, yea and more than those, Sparkle in her; see but her soul, And you will judge those beauties foul. Her rarest beauty is within, She’s fairest where she is not seen; Now her perfection’s character You have approv’d, and chosen her. O precious! she at this wedding The jewel weares—the marriage ring. Her understanding’s deep: like the Venetian duke, you wed the sea; A sea deep, bottomless, profound, And which none but yourself may sound. Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart; Your reason chose, and not your heart; You knew her little, and when her Apron was but a muckender, When that same coral which doth deck Her lips she wore about her neck: You courted her, you woo’d her, not Out of a window, she was got And born your wife; it may be said Her cradle was her marriage-bed. The ring, too, was layd up for it Untill her finger was growne fit: You once gave her to play withal A babie, and I hope you shall This day your ancient gift renew, So she will do the same for you: In virgin wax imprint, upon Her breast, your own impression; You may (there is no treason in ’t) Coine sterling, now you have a mint. You are now stronger than before, Your side hath in it one ribb more. Before she was akin to me Only in soul and amity; But now we are, since shee’s your bride, In soul and body both allyde: ’Tis this has made me less to do, And I in one can honour two. This match a riddle may be styled, Two mothers now have but one child; Yet need we not a Solomon, Each mother here enjoyes her own. Many there are I know have tried To make her their own lovely bride; But it is Alexander’s lot To cut in twaine the Gordian knot: Claudia, to prove that she was chast, Tyed but a girdle to her wast, And drew a ship to Rome by land: But now the world may understand Here is a Claudia too; fair bride, Thy spotlesse innocence is tried; None but thy girdle could have led Our Corbet to a marriage bed. Come, all ye Muses, and rejoice At this your nurslings happy choice: Come, Flora, strew the bridemaid’s bed, And with a garland crowne her head; Or if thy flowers be to seek, Come gather roses at her cheek. Come, Hymen, light thy torches, let Thy bed with tapers be beset, And if there be no fire by, Come light thy taper at her eye; In that bright eye there dwells a starre, And wise men by it guided are. In those delicious eyes there be Two little balls of ivory: How happy is he then that may With these two dainty balls goe play. Let not a teare drop from that eye, Unlesse for very joy to cry. O let your joy continue! may A whole age be your wedding-day! O happy virgin! is it true That your deare spouse embraceth you? Then you from heaven are not farre, But sure in Abraham’s bosom are. Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyce At your Apollo’s happy choice.

If flowing wit, if verses writ with ease, If learning void of pedantry can please; If much good-humour joined to solid sense, And mirth accompanied with innocence, Can give a poet a just right to fame, Then Corbet may immortal honours claim; For he these virtues had, and in his lines Poetic and heroic spirit shines; Though bright yet solid, pleasant but not rude, With wit and wisdom equally endued. Be silent, Muse, thy praises are too faint, Thou want’st a power this prodigy to paint, At once a poet, prelate, and a saint. J. C.

Ye rural bardes who haunte the budding groves, Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves, And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn vale Melt in sweete euloge to the nightingale; Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy muse might raise Aires not earth-born to suit my raven’s praise. Raven he was, yet was no gloomie fowle, Merrie at hearte, though innocente of soule; Where’er he perkt, the birds that came anighe Constrayned caught the humour of his eye: Under that shade no spights and wrongs were spred, Care came not nigh with his uncomlie head. Somewhile the thicke embranching trees amonge, Where Isis doth his waters leade alonge, Kissinge with modeste lippe the holie soyle, Reflecting backe each hallowed grove the while; Here did my raven trie his dulcive note, Charming old Science with his mellow throat. Sometimes with scholiasts deep in anciente lore, Through learnings long defyles he would explore; Then with keene wit untie the perplext knot Of Aristotle or the cunning Scot; Anon loud laughter shook the arched hall, For mirth stood redy at his potente call. Oxforde, thou couldst not binde his outspred wing, My raven flew where bade his princelye king; Norwiche must honours give he did not crave, Norwiche must lend his palace and his grave: And that kinde hearte which gave such vertue birth Must here be shrouded in the greedie earth. Ofte hath thy humble lay-clerke led along, When thou wert by, the eve or matin song; And oftimes rounde thy marble shall he strole, To chaunte sad requiems to thy soothed soul;— Sleep on, till Gabriel’s trump shall break thy sleep, And thou and I one heavenlie holiday shall keep.