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with an occasional palpable hit at the sectaries, must have made him an episcopal bugbear to the Puritans of his day. And certainly his deportment, at times, little suited the dignity of his order. But he flouted at dignities, knowing his manhood to be much superior to any Bishopric. He was something between Archdeacon Paley and the Clerk of Copmanhurst, while he also added a romantic fancy peculiar to himself. He was a sincere Christian, a reasonable theologian, a moderator, a wit, a good fellow. We need not apprehend but that at proper times he bore himself like a brave old bishop, and always stood erect in the integrity of a man.— His journey to France is the most finished of his sportive effusions.

DR. CORBET'S JOURNEY TO FRANCE.

I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe or dance,
Nor yet to ride or 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 get,
I trust he is not paid for yet,

And spurr'd him on each side.

And to St. Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Notre-Dame,

The man that shows them snaffles;
Where who is apt for to believe,
May see our Ladie's right arm sleeve,
And 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 fools, think for their credit,
They may believe old Joseph did it,
'Cause he deserved enough.

There is one of the crosses 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 th' inn and took our nags,
And so away did come.

Thus wrote our merry episcopal satirist, of superstitious relics, and all the trumpery of the Romish Church. The rest of the poem is occupied with certain exquisite strokes of local satire, and a fine historical portrait of Louis XIII., truer than most historians would have painted it—and in far finer style.

Corbet wrote a number of elegies, though his vein flowed more after the manner of Sir John Suckling, than in the style of the tender Tibullus. The elegy upon his father's death is respectful and affectionate: that upon Dr. Donne, ingenius and well turned:

AN EPITAPH ON DR. DONNE, DEAN OF ST. PAUL'S.

He that would write an Epitaph for thee,
And do it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv'd so.
He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down
Enough to help the gallants of the town;
He must have learning plenty, best the laws,
Civil and Common, to judge any cause;
Divinity, great store above the rest,
Not of the last edition, but the best;

He must have language, travel, all thy arts,
Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts:
He must have friends, the highest, able to do,
Such as Mæcenas, and Augustus, too.
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an Epitaph for thee,

He must be dead first; let t' alone for me.

Here follow two lively pieces, having the form of Epi

taph, but with more of a satirical than of an elegiac spirit in

them:

TO THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME.

Thou, once a body, but now aire,
Arch botcher of a psalme or prayer,
From Carfax come;

And patch me up a zealous lay,
With an old ever and ay,
Or, alt and some.

Or such a spirit lend mee,

As may a hymne down send mee,

To purge my braine:

So Robert look behind thee,

Lest Turk or Pope doe find thee,

And goe to bed againe.

ON THOMAS JONCE.

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 sav'd from hell;

And so farewell,

Tom Jonce.

Our last extract shall been in a different strain from any

of the foregoing. It is a poem addressed to his son Vincent Corbet on his birthday, at the age of three years.

What I shall leave thee, none can tell,

But all shall say I wish thee well;

I wish thee, Vin, before all Wealth,
Both bodily and Ghostly health:

Nor too much wit, nor wealth, come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee learning, not for show,
Enough for to instruct and know;
Not such as gentlemen require,
To prate at table or at fire.

I wish thee all thy mother's graces,
Thy father's fortunes, and his places.
I wish thee friends, and one at court,
Not to build on, but support;
To keep thee, not in doing many
Oppressions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee peace in all thy ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious days;
And when thy soul and body part,

As innocent as now thou art.

Thus much from merry, wise, and kind-hearted Bishop Corbet.

XIX.

THE LADIES' LIBRARY.

THAT admirable manual of "les petites morales," and even of higher matters occasionally, the Spectator, contains a paper which we hesitate not to accept as a just specimen of contem

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