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I ne'er was of thy kind;
poor desire, That others should not warm them at
fire : I wish the sun should shine On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as mine.
But under the disguise of love,
Go, get thee quickly forth!
Seek doubting men to please;
Or scorn, or pity, on me take,
I am undone to-night!
Hath both my heart and me surprised, Whom never yet he durst attempt t' awake; 11 Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the delight, or spite;
11 Gifford corrects, very plausibly,
“Whom never yet he durst attempt awake."
But leaves me to inquire,
Of Sleep again, who was his aid,
And Sleep so guilty and afraid, As since he dares not come within my sight.
AN EPITAPH ON MASTER VINCENT CORBET. 19
I have my piety too, which, could
Would say as much as both have done
Before me here, the friend and son;
Dear Vincent Corbet, who so long
Had wrestled with diseases strong,
With the just canon of his life,
12 The father of Bishop Corbet, the poet. Vincent Corbet, who lived to the great age of eighty, and died in 1619, was a man of exemplary character. He lived chiefly at Whitton, in Middlesex, where he became famous for his nurserygrounds, which he cultivated with great skill and success. By these pursuits he amassed a large property, which he bequeathed to his son. At one period Vincent Corbet appears to have assumed the name of Pointer; but whether it descended to him through some branch of his family, and was afterwards relinquished for that of Corbet, is not known. There is an affectionate tribute to his worth amongst the poems of his son. — B.
But was, by sweetening so his will,
His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his nurseries, and swept
And add his actions unto these,
They were as spacious 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
His looks would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet not the men.
I should have done,
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!
Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both.
AN EPISTLE TO SIR EDWARD SACKVILE, NOW
EARL OF DORSET. 13 If, Sackvile, all that have the power to do Great and good turns, as well could time them too, And knew their how and where; we should have
then Less list of proud, hard, or ingrateful men. For benefits are owed with the same mind As they are done, and such returns they find: You then, whose will not only, but desire To succor my necessities, took fire, Not at my prayers, but your sense ; which laid The way to meet what others would upbraid, And in the act did so my blush prevent, As I did feel it done, as soon as meant; You cannot doubt, but I who freely know This good from you, as freely will it owe; And though my fortune humble me, to take The smallest courtesies with thanks, I make Yet choice from whom I take them; and would
l shame To have such do me good, I durst not name. They are the noblest benefits, and sink Deepest in man, of which, when he doth think,
18 Son of Robert, second Eurl of Dorset. He was the Sir Edward Sackvile who, in his youth, was engaged in the savage duel with Lord Bruce, of which he has himself left an account. He afterwards earned the panegyric of Clarendon by his wit and learning. Gifforil tells us that this epistle aildressed to him by Jonson was the favorite poem of Horue Tooke. He had it by heart, and delighted to quote it on all occasions.-B.
The memory delights him more, from whom, Than what, he hath received. Gifts stink from
some, They are so long a coming, and so hard; Where
any deed is forced, the grace is marred. Can I owe thanks for courtesies received Against his will that does 'em ? that hath weaved Excuses or delays? or done them scant, That they have more oppressed me than my
want? Or if he did it not to succor me, But by mere chance ? for interest ? or to free Himself of farther trouble, or the weight Of pressure, like one taken in a strait ? All this corrupts the thanks; less hath he won, That puts it in his debt-book ere't be done ; Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call His grooms to witness; or else lets it fall In that proud manner, as a good so gained, Must make me sad for what I have obtained. No! Gifts and thanks should have one cheer
ful face, So each, that's done and ta’en, becomes a brace. He neither gives, or does, that doth delay A benefit, or that doth throw't away; No more than he doth thank, that will receive Naught but in corners, and is loath to leave Least air, or print, but flies it: such men would Run from the conscience of it, if they could.
As I have seen some infants of the sword