"'Tis rare to break at court,
For that belongs to the city."
Ha ha! my spleen is almost worn
To the last laughter.
"Oh keep a corner for a friend!
A jest may come hereafter."
BISHOP (RICHARD) CORBET.
[Born in 1582, died in 1635. Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. The humorous turn of his verses was the reflex of the like quality in himself. Indeed, his deportment appears to have often been eminently unepiscopal: he had, however, substantial merits of kindliness and sound sense to set off against this].
DR. CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.
I WENT from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride nor fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.
But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song,
Upon a holy-tide;
I on an ambling nag did jet
(I trust he is not paid for yet),
And spurred him on each side.
And to St. Denis fast we came,
To see the sights of Notre Dame,
(The man that shows them snuffles);
Where who is apt for to believe
May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve,
Ánd eke her old pantofles;
Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town
When in the inn she lay;
Yet all the world knows that's a fable,
For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.
No carpenter could by his trade
Gain so much coin as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff;
Yet they, poor souls, think, for their credit,
That they believe old Joseph did it,
'Cause he deserved enough.
There is one of the cross's nails,
Which whoso sees his bonnet vails,
And, if he will, may kneel.
Some say 'twas false, 'twas never so ;
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.
There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use,―
It weighs my weight downright;
But, to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in't.
And then 'twas very light.
There's one saint there hath lost his nose,
Another's head, but not his toes,
His elbow and his thumb.
But, when that we had seen the rags,
We went to the inn, and took our nags,
And so away did come.
We came to Paris, on the Seine ;
'Tis wondrous fair, 'tis nothing clean,
'Tis Europe's greatest town;
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.
There many strange things are to see ;-
The palace and great gallery,
The Place Royal doth excel,
The New Bridge, and the statues there,-
At Notre Dame St. Q. Pater
The steeple bears the bell;
For learning the University,
And for old clothes the Frippery;
The house the queen did build;
St. Innocence, whose earth devours
Dead corps in four-and-twenty hours,
And there the king was killed.
The Bastille and St. Denis Street,
The Shafflenist like London Fleet,
The Arsenal no toy;
But, if you'll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the king-
Oh 'tis a hopeful boy!
He is, of all his dukes and peers,
Reverenced for much wit at's years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pies of clay,—
Oh never king made such !
A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
'Tis known to every one;
The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot,
And he had twenty cannons for it,
For his new galleon.
Oh that I e'er might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian ruck!
I'd give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise or Liviné,
Or else I had ill-luck.
Birds round about his chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand,
'Tis his humility;
And, if they do want anything,
They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.
But now, then, for these parts he must Be enstyled Lewis the Just,
Great Henry's lawful heir;
When, to his style to add more words,
They'd better call him King of Birds
Than of the great Navarre.
He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by nature, how to work
In iron with much ease.
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys;
Which puts a doubt in every one
Whether he be Mars' or Vulcan's son,-
Some few believe his mother;
But, let them all say what they will,
I came resolved, and so think still,
As much the one as th' other.
The people too dislike the youth,]
Alleging reasons, for, in truth,
Mothers should honoured be;
Yet others say he loves her rather
As well as e'er she loved her father,
And that's notoriously.
His queen, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She's ne'er like to be mother;
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.
Nor why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina's mate,
And suffer his little pretty queen
From all her race that yet hath been
So to degenerate?
'Twere charity for to be known
To love others' children as his own
And why? It is no shame;
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.
FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES. "FAREWELL, rewards and fairies !" Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And, though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?
Lament, lament, old Abbeys,
The fairies lost command!
They did but change priests' babies,
But some have changed your land;
And all your children stoln from thence
Are now grown Puritans;
Who live as changelings ever since,
For love of your domains.
At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
These pretty ladies had;
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary's days
On many a grassy plain;
But, since of late Elizabeth,
And later James, came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or further for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth was punished sure;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue:
Oh how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!
AN EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCE.1
HERE, for the nonce,
Came Thomas Jonce,
In St. Giles' church to lie.
None Welsh before,
None Welshman more,
Till Shon Clerk die.
I'll toll the bell,
I'll ring his knell ;
He died well,
He's saved from hell;
And so farewell
1 Thomas Jonce (Jones), a Welsh clergyman, who lived in St. Giles' parish, Oxford.
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