VINCENT CORBET,
Reading edition
Who, from causes which I have not conclusively ascertained, assumed the name of Poynter, was one of those by whose experience and information sir Hugh Platt, at a period when the horticultural arts in this country were in their infancy, was enabled to publish his “Garden Of Eden.” The beautiful “Epitaph” of Ben Jonson, and the following “Elegy,” are high testimonials of his amiable and virtuous disposition.
His father’s name I have not learned; but his mother, whose name was Rose, was buried at Twickenham, September the 13th, 1611, and the register of the same parish proves that her son pursued her path the 29th April, 1619.
Among other legacies, he bequeathed to the poor of Twickenham forty shillings, to be paid immediately after his decease; and four loads of charcoal, to be distributed at the discretion of the churchwardens. These bequests are overlooked by Ironside and Lysons, and I am happy in recording the father of bishop Corbet as a benefactor to my native village.
Nescis quâ natale solum dulcedine captos Ducit, et immemores non sinit esse sui.
AN ELEGIE UPON THE DEATH OF HIS OWNE FATHER.
Vincent Corbet, farther knowne By Poynters 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, he liv’d more; And number him by doeing good, He liv’d their age beyond the Flood. Should wee undertake his story, Truth would seeme fain’d, and plainesse glory: Beside, this tablet were too small, Add to the pillers 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 Natures factour here, And legier lay for every sheire; To supply the ingenious wants Of some spring-fruites, and forraigne plants. Simple he was, and wise withall; His purse nor base, nor prodigall; Poorer in substance then in freinds; Future and publicke were his endes; His conscience, like his dyett, such As neither tooke nor left too 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 only to enclose? Or with their rost 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 greiv’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 bee written, and not read.