Note 1 — THE LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.

I have my piety too, which, could It vent itself but as it would, Would say as much as both have done Before me here, the friend and son: For I both lost a friend and father, Of him whose bones this grave doth gather: Dear Vincent Corbet, who so long Had wrestled with diseases strong, That though they did possess each limb, Yet he broke them, ere they could him, With the just canon of his life; A life that knew nor noise nor strife: But was by sweetning so his will, All order and composure still. His mind as pure, and neatly kept As were his nourseries, and swept So of uncleanness or offence, That never came ill odour thence! And add his actions unto these, They were as specious as his trees. ’Tis true, he could not reprehend, His very manners taught t’ amend, They were so even, grave, and holy; No stubbornness so stiff, nor folly To licence ever was so light, As twice to trespass in his sight; His looks would so correct it, when It chid the vice, yet not the men. Much from him, I profess, I won, And more, much more, I should have done, But that I understood him scant: Now I conceive him by my want; And pray, who shall my sorrows read, That they for me their tears will shed: For truly, since he left to be, I feel I’m rather dead than he. Reader, whose life and name did e’er become An epitaph, deserv’d a tomb: Nor wants it here through penury or sloth, Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both. Jonson’s Underwoods.