ITER BOREALE
Reading edition
Seems a sort of imitation of Horace’s Brundusian journey. Davenant has “a journey into Worcestershire” (page 215. fol. edit.) in a similar vein, says Headley. If the popularity of this poem may be estimated by the frequency of manuscript copies in the public libraries, we may conclude it was valued very highly, as the transcripts of it are very numerous.
Misled by one of these, I considered this poem, the longest and most celebrated of bishop Corbet’s productions, to have been written in 1625: subsequent examination has induced me to place the date of its composition considerably earlier: the reasons on which this opinion is grounded, will be detailed in the following analysis of the Tour.
Our author commences his journey from Oxford in a company consisting of four persons, two of whom then were, and two of whom wished to be, doctors: but there is nothing in the course of the tour to show us which of the classes he belonged to, unless we are to suppose, from the shortness of cash which discovers itself before the termination of his adventures, that he was rather one of those who had wealth in expectancy than in possession.
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They set off on the 10th of August, and, long as the days are about that period, had a good chance of sharpening their appetites by their first half-day’s ride, thirty miles before dinner, when they sat down to dine with Dr. Christopher Middleton, at his rectory of Ashton on the Wall in Northamptonshire, about eight miles north of Banbury; where we learn that their entertainment was better than the looks of their host, whom they left in the evening, and rode to Flore, about twelve miles north-east, and took up their lodgings for the night.
At Flore they were entertained by a country surgeon, or (in the vulgar phrase) bone-setter, the tenant of Dr. Leonard Hutton, the rector of Flore and dean of Christ-Church, who fed them upon venison.
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The third morning they set off for Daventry, about five miles. Here it happened to be the market- and lecture-day: and after having washed down the dust which their throats had acquired in the ride, one of them was summoned by the serjeant at mace to deliver the lecture; for which they were all rewarded with thanks and wine.
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The fourth morning they rode to Lutterworth in Leicestershire, about sixteen miles. This was once the benefice of Wickliffe, the father of English reformers; and here the tourist very properly remarks on the double injustice done to that venerable character, first by the Papists in burning his body, and afterwards by the Puritans in destroying the sacred memorial of the interment of his ashes. At Lutterworth they were met by a parson, who though well-beneficed was better-mannered, and was their guide to his dwelling within a mile of Leicester. A note on the older editions of Corbet calls this gentleman the Parson of Heathcot: but there is no place of the name of Heathcot in that neighbourhood; and as, by comparison with other parts of the tour in which miles are mentioned, one mile will be invariably found to signify one and a half at the least; and as less than two reputed miles is accounted only one mile in the distance of places, I presume it was Ayleston, and not Heathcot, where the party rested, and were regaled with stale beer. At length they arrived at Leicester, thirteen miles north of Lutterworth, where, passing over six steeples and two hospitals, (“one hospital twice told,”) which he refers to the eye of Camden, he censures the ignorance of the alms-man, who, notwithstanding it was written on the walls that Henry of Grisemont laid the foundation, told them it was John of Gaunt. Henry Plantagenet, earl of Lancaster, was the first founder of the hospital in the Newark at Leicester in the year 1330, which was considerably enlarged and improved, and converted into a college by his son Henry, the good duke of Lancaster, in 1355; but there is a more general sense in which the word Founder is used, namely, that in which it is extended to all those who inherit, either by descent or by purchase, the patronage under the original founder. And in this sense it may be applied to John of Gaunt, the second duke of Lancaster, who married his near kinswoman the heiress of the former duke, and perfected both in buildings and endowments what the others had commenced. The other hospital alluded to, is that founded by William Wigston, merchant of the Staple, about 1520.
The tourist next observes on the extortion of the innkeeper, who, reckoning by the number of his guests rather than the goodness of his provision, charged them seven shillings and sixpence for bread and beer; but, after a kindly caution to the publican to forbear such cozenage upon Divines in future, lest they should be suspected of drinking as freely as he charges them, turns from a subject so unworthy of his Pegasus in disgust, and inquires if this be not the burial-place of Richard the Third; and, finding that there is no memorial for him, moralizes upon the neglected state in which he lies, as the eventual fate of all greatness: then from Richard proceeds to Wolsey, who was also buried at Leicester, and produces similar reflections; and from Wolsey, to William the ostler of the inn, who outdoes the company in years as well as drink, and calls them to horse as imperiously as if he had a warrant from the earl of Nottingham.
The earl of Nottingham here glanced at was Charles lord Howard of Effingham, lord high admiral of England under queen Elizabeth and king James the First. He died in 1624.
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From Leicester to Nottingham (twenty-five miles) the travellers pass without noticing any thing on their way, until approaching the latter place they cross the Trent, pray to St. Andrew as they ride up hill, into the town, and observe that the people burrow, like conies, in caverns, from whence the smoke ascends at the feet of the woman who stands on the surface watching, down the chimney, the cooking of her dinner. The part of the town at which they enter is described as the Rocky Parish, higher than the rest; and the church of St. Mary, as embracing her Baby in her arms. From hence they proceed to the Castle, which is described as a ruin, with two statues of giants at the gates, whom the tourist severely censures for their negligence in permitting their charge to come to ruin, and reproaches them with the fidelity of the giants at Guildhall and Holmeby, who had carefully kept the buildings committed to their charge when the founders were dead. The poet might still compliment the giants at Guildhall; but of Holmeby (Holdenby House, Northamptonshire, built by queen Elizabeth’s lord chancellor, sir Christopher Hatton,) not one stone remains upon another: nay, the very memory of the giants might have perished but for the Iter Boreale.
The travellers then go to dinner at the Bull’s Head, where the archbishop of York had been before them, and where their discontent with bed and diet was answered by a reference to the satisfaction which he had received; and where the aged landlord, formerly an ostler, is noticed as a rare example to those who have an itch for gold.
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Their next stage was to Newark, (about twenty miles, or, according to the reckoning of the poet, twelve), which is spoken of as no journey, but only a walk; and the banks of the Trent as so fertile and beautiful, that the English river takes away the palm from the celebrated Meander. The pleasure of this part of their journey was not diminished by their reception at Newark, where they met with a friend, out of respect to whom the town united as a family to give the travellers a hearty welcome; and even the landlord of one inn did not repine that they had passed his house to go to another, and the landlord of the inn where they rested was more solicitous of their approbation than his own profit. The very beggars rather prayed for their friend than begged of his guests, and the Puritans were willing to “let the organs play,” if the visitors would tarry.
From Newark they saw Bever (Belvoir) and Lincoln, and would fain have gone there but for the limitation on their purse and horses. At three o’clock they set off, with twenty (thirty) miles to ride, (probably to Melton Mowbray); and having neither guide, nor horse of speed, after losing their way, two hours after sun-set blundered upon a village, from whence they obtained a guide to Loughborough. From thence they set off next morning for Bosworth, (eighteen miles,) but in their way thither are lost in Charley Forest, and ask their way from the travellers they meet about the coal-mines at Coalorton, without receiving an answer; when William, their attendant, seeing a man approach, imagines himself to be in Fairyland. But the party are agreeably surprised by finding him one of the keepers of the forest, who conducts them within view of Bosworth.
At Bosworth they meet with far better treatment than the appearance of the place had promised; and, when their host there, who was their guide the next morning, brought them near to the field on which the battle of Bosworth was fought, are greatly amused by his romantic description of the battle. The guide seems to leave them at Nuneaton in Warwickshire, six miles (about nine) from Bosworth; from whence they proceed to Coventry, nine miles; and from thence, having scarcely had time to dine, depart for Kenilworth, five miles, where they are offended by the indecency of an aged parson, who attended the servant of the lord Leicester, it is presumed, to show them the Castle. The Castle of Kenilworth was once the splendid residence of Robert Dudley, earl of Leicester, one of the favourites of queen Elizabeth, and on his death, in 1588, passed to his son, Robert Dudley, who used the title of earl of Leicester,—but by a decree of the Star-Chamber was declared to be illegitimate, and from disgust at that sentence retired into Italy, under a license for three years; and being summoned by the privy-council, at the instigation of his enemies, to return into England, and refusing to obey the summons, the Castle of Kenilworth was, for his contumacy, seized by the Crown under the statute of Fugitives; and Henry prince of Wales, in the year 1611, purchased a release of the inheritance of it from sir Robert Dudley, who was to have the constableship of the Castle, under prince Henry, for life. It does not appear, however, that sir Robert Dudley resided at Kenilworth afterwards: he probably had little regard for a place of which he had been compelled to relinquish the inheritance. This may account for the neglected state in which it was found by our poet and his companions.
From Kenilworth they proceed to Warwick, three (five) miles, noticing in their way the Cave of the celebrated hero of English romance, Guy earl of Warwick, as also his Pillar: and at Warwick we have a humorous description of the landlady of the inn. From the inn they proceed to the Castle, where they are received by “the lord of all this frame, the honourable Chancellor,” whose politeness and elegance of manners receive favourable notice. Sir Fulk Greville obtained a grant of Warwick Castle from king James the First, in the second year of his reign, (1604,) and was about the same time appointed chancellor of the exchequer; and resigned his office of chancellor, on being elevated to the peerage by the title of lord Brooke, 19th of January, 1620-21. It may be observed, that the author of the Iter notices him as an honourable chancellor, not as noble lord; which he certainly would have done if the Iter had not been of an earlier date than 1621.
With sir Fulk Greville they found a prelate of the church, an archdeacon, whom a note in the old editions calls archdeacon Burton. This, I presume, was Samuel Burton, A. M. of Christ-Church, Oxford, who paid first-fruits for the archdeaconry of Gloucester, in the cathedral of Gloucester, the 9th of May, 1607, and died the 14th of June, 1634, and was buried at Dry-Drayton in Gloucestershire. He is described as sufficiently corpulent to deserve the displeasure of the Puritans, whom our author never loses an opportunity of lashing.
From Warwick they arrive at Flore, (about twenty-one miles,) having been able to make both ends (of their purse) meet; and, after staying there four days, arrive at Banbury on St. Bartholomew’s day, (24th of August,) desirous to see what sport the saint would produce there. At this place (where they rested at the sign of the Altar-Stone) the tourist finds the altar converted into an inn, and, judging by the sign, lodged in a chapel, but, by the wine, in a bankrupt tavern; and yet, by the coffins converted into horse-troughs, a church. But though you may judge, by what is found at the inn, that the church is full of monuments, you will be disappointed; for there was not an inscription in the church except the names of the last year’s churchwardens,—with buckets and cobwebs hanging, instead of painted saints, in the windows. In short, the town seems to have been a strange collection of sectaries differing from each other.
From hence he returns to Oxford, twenty-two miles, with as little coin in his purse as sir Walter Raleigh brought from his unsuccessful expedition to Guiana in 1618; between which period and 1621 it is clear the poem was written.
ITER BOREALE.
Foure clerkes of Oxford, doctours two, and two That would be doctors, having lesse to do With Augustine then with Galen in vacation, Chang’d studyes, and turn’d bookes to recreation: And on the tenth of August, northward bent A journey, not so soon conceiv’d as spent. The first halfe day they rode, they light upon A noble cleargy host, Kitt Middleton[82]; Who, numb’ring out good dishes with good tales, The major part o’ th’ cheere weigh’d downe the scales: And though the countenance makes the feast, (say bookes,) Wee nere found better welcome with worse lookes. Here wee pay’d thankes and parted; and at night Had entertainement, all in one mans right[83], At Flore, a village; where our tenant shee, Sharp as a winters morning, feirce yet free, With a leane visage, like a carved face On a court cupboard, offer’d up the place. Shee pleas’d us well; but, yet, her husband better; A harty fellow, and a good bone-setter[84]. Now, whether it were providence or lucke, Whether the keepers or the stealers bucke, There wee had ven’son; such as Virgill slew When he would feast Æneas and his crew. Here wee consum’d a day; and the third morne To Daintry with a land-wind were wee borne. It was the market and the lecture-day, For lecturers sell sermons, as the lay Doe sheep and oxen; have their seasons just For both their marketts: there wee dranke downe dust. In th’ interim comes a most officious drudge[85], His face and gowne drawne out with the same budge; His pendant pouch, which was both large and wide, Lookt like a letters-patent by his side: He was as awfull, as he had bin sent From Moses with th’ elev’nth commandement; And one of us he sought; a sonne of Flore He must bid stand, and challendge for an hower. The doctors both were quitted of that feare, The one was hoarce, the other was not there; Wherefore him of the two he seazed, best Able to answere him of all the rest: Because hee neede but ruminate that ore Which he had chew’d the Sabbath-day before. And though he were resolv’d to doe him right, For Mr. Balyes sake, and Mr. Wright[86], Yet he dissembled that the mace did erre; That he nor deacon was, nor minister. No! quoth the serjeant; sure then, by relation, You have a licence, sir, or toleration: And if you have no orders ’tis the better, So you have Dods Præcepts, or Cleavers Letters[87]. Thus looking on his mace, and urging still Twas Mr. Wrights and Mr. Bayleyes will That hee should mount; at last he condiscended To stopp the gapp; and so the treaty ended. The sermon pleas’d, and, when we were to dine, Wee all had preachers wages, thankes and wine. Our next dayes stage was Lutterworth[88], a towne Not willing to be noted or sett downe By any traveller; for, when w’ had bin Through at both ends, wee could not finde an inne: Yet, for the church sake, turne and light wee must, Hoping to see one dramme of Wickliffs dust[89]; But wee found none: for underneath the pole Noe more rests of his body then his soule. Abused martyr! how hast thou bin torne By two wilde factions! First, the Papists burne Thy bones for hate; the Puritans, in zeale, They sell thy marble, and thy brasse they steale. A parson[90] mett us there, who had good store Of livings, some say, but of manners more; In whose streight chearefull age a man might see Well govern’d fortune, bounty wise and free. He was our guide to Leister, save one mile, There was his dwelling, where wee stay’d awhile, And dranke stale beere, I thinke was never new, Which the dun wench that brought it us did brew. And now wee are at Leister, where wee shall Leape ore six steeples, and one hospitall Twice told; but those great landmarkes I referr To Camdens eye, Englands chorographer. Let mee observe that almesmans heraldrye, Who being ask’d, what Henry that should be That was their founder, duke of Lancaster, Answer’d: Twas John of Gaunt, I assure you, sir; And so confuted all the walles, which sayd Henry of Grisemond this foundation layd. The next thing to be noted was our cheere, Enlarg’d, with seav’ne and sixpence bread and beere! But, oh you wretched tapsters as you are, Who reckon by our number, not your ware, And sett false figures for all companyes, Abusing innocent meales with oathes and lyes; Forbeare your coos’nage to Divines that come, Least they be thought to drinke up all your summe. Spare not the Laity in your reckoning thus, But sure your theft is scandalous to us. Away, my muse, from this base subject, know Thy Pegasus nere strooke his foote soe low. Is not th’ usurping Richard buryed here, That king of hate, and therefore slave of feare; Dragg’d from the fatall feild Bosworth, where hee Lost life, and, what he liv’d for,—cruelty? Search; find his name: but there is none. Oh kings! Remember whence your power and vastnesse springs; If not as Richard now, so shall you bee; Who hath no tombe, but scorne and memorye. And though that Woolsey from his store might save A pallace, or a colledge for his grave, Yet there he lyes interred as if all Of him to be remembred were his fall. Nothing but earth to earth, no pompeous waight Upon him, but a pibble or a quaite. If thou art thus neglected, what shall wee[91] Hope after death, who are but shreads of thee? Hold! William calls to horse; William is hee, Who, though he never saw threescore and three, Ore-reckons us in age, as he before In drink, and will baite nothing of foure score: And he commands, as if the warrant came From the great earle himselfe of Nottingham. There wee crost Trent, and on the other side Prayd to Saint Andrew; and up hill wee ride. Where wee observ’d the cunning men, like moles, Dwell not in howses, but were earth’t in holes; So did they not builde upwards, but digg thorough, As hermitts caves, or conyes do their borough: Great underminers sure as any where; Tis thought the Powder-traitors practis’d there. Would you not thinke the men stood on their heads, When gardens cover howses there, like leades; And on the chymneyes topp the mayd may know Whether her pottage boyle or not, below; There cast in hearbes, and salt, or bread; their meate Contented rather with the smoake then heate? This was the Rocky-Parish; higher stood Churches and houses, buildings stone and wood; Crosses not yet demolish’t; and our Ladye With her armes on, embracing her whole Baby[92]. Where let us note, though those are northerne parts, The Crosse finds in them more then southerne hearts. The Castle’s next; but what shall I report Of that which is a ruine, was a fort? The gates two statues keepe, which gyants[93] are, To whome it seemes committed was the care Of the whole downfall. If it be your fault; If you are guilty; may king Davids vault[94], Or Mortimers darke hole[95], contain you both[96]! A just reward for so prophane a sloth. And if hereafter tidings shall be brought Of any place or office to be bought, And the left lead, or unwedg’d timber yet Shall pass by your consent to purchase it; May your deformed bulkes endure the edge Of axes, feele the beetle and the wedge! May all the ballads be call’d in and dye, Which sing the warrs of Colebrand and sir Guy! Oh you that doe Guild-hall and Holmeby keepe Soe carefully, when both the founders sleepe, You are good giants, and partake no shame With those two worthlesse trunkes of Nottinghame: Looke to your severall charges; wee must goe, Though greiv’d at heart to leave a castle so. The Bull-head[97] is the word, and wee must eate; Noe sorrow can descend soe deepe as meate: So to the inne wee come; where our best cheere Was, that his grace of Yorke had lodged there: Hee was objected to us when wee call, Or dislike ought: “My lords grace” answers all: “Hee was contented with this bed, this dyett.” That keepes our discontented stomackes quiett. The inne-keeper was old, fourescore allmost, Indeede an embleme rather then an host; In whome wee read how God and Time decree To honour thrifty ostlers, such as hee. For in the stable first he did begin; Now see hee is sole lord of the whole inne: Mark the encrease of straw and hay, and how, By thrift, a bottle may become a mow. Marke him, all you that have the golden itch, All whome God hath condemned to be rich[98]. Farwell, glad father of thy daughter Maris, Thou ostler-phœnix, thy example rare is. Wee are for Newarke after this sad talke; And whither tis noe journey, but a walke. Nature is wanton there, and the high-way Seem’d to be private, though it open lay; As if some swelling lawyer, for his health, Or frantick usurer, to tame his wealth, Had chosen out ten miles by Trent, to trye Two great effects of art and industry. The ground wee trodd was meddow, fertile land, New trimm’d and levell’d by the mowers hand; Above it grew a roke, rude, steepe, and high, Which claimes a kind of reverence from the eye: Betwixt them both there glides a lively streame, Not loud, but swifte: Mæander was a theame Crooked and rough; but had the poetts seene Straight, even Trent, it had immortall bin. This side the open plaine admitts the sunne To halfe the river; there did silver runne: The other halfe ran clowdes; where the curl’d wood With his exalted head threaten’d the floude. Here could I wish us ever passing by And never past; now Newarke is too nigh: And as a Christmas seemes a day but short, Deluding time with revells and good sport; So did these beauteous mixtures us beguile, And the whole twelve, being travail’d, seem’d a mile. Now as the way was sweet, soe was the end; Our passage easy, and our prize a friend[99], Whome there wee did enjoy; and for whose sake, As for a purer kinde of coyne, men make Us liberall welcome; with such harmony As the whole towne had bin his family. Mine host of the next inne did not repine That wee preferr’d the Heart, and past his signe: And where wee lay, the host and th’ hostesse faine Would shew our love was aym’d at, not their gaine: The very beggars were s’ ingenious, They rather prayd for him, then begg’d of us. And, soe the Doctors friends will please to stay, The Puritans will let the organs play. Would they pull downe the gallery, builded new, With the church-wardens seat and Burleigh-pew, Newarke, for light and beauty, might compare With any church, but what cathedralls are. To this belongs a vicar[100], who succeded The friend I mention’d; such a one there needed; A man whose tongue and life is eloquent, Able to charme those mutinous heads of Trent, And urge the Canon home, when they conspire Against the crosse and bells with swords and fire. There stood a Castle, too; they shew us here The roome where the King slep’t[101], the window where He talk’t with such a lord, how long he staid In his discourse, and all, but what he said. From hence, without a perspective, wee see Bever and Lincolne, where wee faine would bee; But that our purse and horses both are bound Within the circuite of a narrower ground. Our purpose is all homeward, and ’twas time At parting to have witt, as well as rime; Full three a clock, and twenty miles to ride, Will aske a speedy horse, and a sure guide; Wee wanted both: and Loughborow may glory, Errour hath made it famous in our story. Twas night, and the swifte horses of the Sunne Two houres before our jades their race had runn; Noe pilott moone, nor any such kinde starre As governd those wise men that came from farre To holy Bethlem; such lights had there bin, They would have soone convay’d us to an inne; But all were wandring-starrs; and wee, as they, Were taught noe course, but to ride on and stray. When (oh the fate of darknesse, who hath tride it) Here our whole fleete is scatter’d and divided; And now wee labour more to meete, then erst Wee did to lodge; the last cry drownes the first: Our voyces are all spent, and they that follow Can now no longer track us by the hollow; They curse the formost, wee the hindmost, both Accusing with like passion, hast, and sloth. At last, upon a little towne wee fall, Where some call drinke, and some a candle call: Unhappy wee, such stragglers as wee are Admire a candle offner then a starre: Wee care not for those glorious lampes a loofe, Give us a tallow-light and a dry roofe. And now wee have a guide wee cease to chafe, And now w’ have time to pray the rest be safe. Our guide before cryes Come, and wee the while Ride blindfold, and take bridges for a stile: Till at the last wee overcame the darke, And spight of night and errour hitt the marke. Some halfe howre after enters the whole tayle, As if they were committed to the jayle: The constable, that tooke them thus divided, Made them seeme apprehended, and not guided: Where, when wee had our fortunes both detested, Compassion made us friends, and so wee rested. ’Twas quickly morning, though by our short stay Wee could not find that wee had lesse to pay. All travellers, this heavy judgement heare: “A handsome hostesse makes the reckoning deare;” Her smiles, her wordes, your purses must requite them, And every wellcome from her, adds an item. Glad to be gon from thence at any rate, For Bosworth wee are horst: Behold the state Of mortall men! Foule Errour is a mother, And, pregnant once, doth soone bring forth an other; Wee, who last night did learne to loose our way, Are perfect since, and farther out next day. And in a forrest[102] having travell’d sore, Like wandring Bevis ere hee found the bore; Or as some love-sick lady oft hath donne, Ere shee was rescued by the Knight of th’ Sunne: Soe are wee lost, and meete no comfort then But carts and horses, wiser then the men. Which is the way? They neyther speake nor point; Their tongues and fingers both were out of joynt: Such monsters by Coal-Orton bankes there sitt, After their resurrection from the pitt. Whilst in this mill wee labour and turne round As in a conjurers circle, William found A menes for our deliverance: Turne your cloakes, Quoth hee, for Puck is busy in these oakes: If ever yee at Bosworth will be found, Then turne your cloakes, for this is Fayry-ground. But, ere this witchcraft was perform’d, wee mett A very man, who had no cloven feete; Though William, still of little faith, doth doubt Tis Robin, or some sprite that walkes about: Strike him, quoth hee, and it will turne to ayre; Crosse your selves thrice and strike it: Strike that dare, Thought I, for sure this massy forrester In stroakes will prove the better conjurer. But twas 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 wee had swett ’twixt sunn and sunn, And eight miles long to thirty broad had spun; Wee 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 dayes 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 hee brought us nigh Where the two Roses[103] joyn’d, you would suppose, Chaucer nere made the Romant of the Rose. Heare him. See yee 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 authenticke notice from the Play; Which I might guesse, by’s mustring up the ghosts, 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[104]. Howere his talke, his company pleas’d well; His mare went truer then his chronicle; And even for conscience sake, unspurr’d, unbeaten, Brought us six miles, and turn’d tayle at Nuneaton. From thence to Coventry, where wee scarcely dine; Our stomackes only warm’d with zeale and wine: And then, as if wee were predestin’d forth, Like Lot from Sodome, fly to Killingworth. The keeper of the castle was from home, Soe that halfe mile wee lost; yet when wee come An host receiv’d us there, wee’l nere deny him, My lord of Leisters man; the parson by him, Who had no other proofe to testify He serv’d the Lord, but age and baudery[105]. 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[106] At foote of an high rock consists, in signe Of Guy and his devotions; who there stands Ugly and huge, more then a man on ’s hands: His helmett steele, his gorgett mayl, his sheild Brass, made the chappell fearefull as a feild. And let this answere all the Popes complaints; Wee sett up gyants though wee pull downe saintes. Beyond this, in the roadway as wee 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 wee may passe Cleare to our inne: Oh there an hostesse was, To whome the Castle and the Dun Cow are Sights after dinner; shee is morning ware. Her whole behaviour borrowed was, and mixt, 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. Shee was barrd up in whale-bones which doe leese None of the whales length; for they reach’d her knees: Off with her head, and then shee hath a middle: As her wast stands, shee lookes like the new fiddle, The favorite Theorbo, (truth to tell yee,) Whose neck and throat are deeper then the belly[107]. Have you seene monkyes chain’d about the loynes, Or pottle-potts with rings? Just soe shee joynes Her selfe together: A dressing shee doth love In a small print below, and text above. What though her name be King, yet tis 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 shee 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 out and see the Castle[108]? Come, The owner saith, it is a schollers 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, Wee 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 workemans art deceaves our sence, Making those rounds of pleasure a defence. As wee descend, the lord of all this frame, The honorable Chancellour, towards us came[109]. 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[110], by his place Arch-deacon to the byshopp, by his face A greater man; for that did counterfeit Lord abbot of some covent standing yet, A corpulent relique: marry and tis 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 wee fare well foure dayes, and did complain, Like harvest folkes, of weather and the raine: And on the feast of Barthol’mew wee try What revells that saint keepes at Banbury[111]. In th’ name of God, Amen! First to begin, The altar was translated to an inne; Wee lodged in a chappell by the signe, But in a banquerupt taverne by the wine: Besides, our horses usage made us thinke Twas still a church, for they in coffins drinke[112]; As if twere congruous that the ancients lye Close by those alters in whose faith they dye. Now yee 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 surveyors power Of the high wayes, that he would gravell keepe; For else in winter sure it will be deepe. If not for Gods, for Mr. Wheatlyes sake Levell 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, ’tis plaine all the idolatry Lyes in your folly, not th’ imagery. Tis 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 meete; 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 then 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 Of seeing it remaines; ere long you shall Have that rac’t downe, and call’d Apocryphal, And in some barne heare cited many an author, Kate Stubbs, Anne Askew, or the Ladyes daughter[113]; Which shall be urg’d for fathers. Stopp Disdaine, When Oxford once appears, Satyre refraine. Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out gon ’s? Is not Saint Giles’s this, and that Saint Johns? Wee are return’d; but just with soe much ore As Rawleigh from his voyage, and noe more.
Non recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus, Non ubivis, coramve quibuslibet. Hor. lib. i. sat. 4.