VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. J. DONNE.
Dr. Richard Corbet, in 1632, tranflated from the See of Oxford, to that of Norwich, died in 1635. He was in his younger years one of the most celebrated wits in the university of Oxford, afterward admired for his quaint and eloquent preaching, and much commended for his great liberality and munificence, and particularly in promoting the repair of St. Paul's Cathedral. The volume of his poems, which have great merit, is not common; and therefore feveral extracts from it are published in the Biographia Britannica.
"If flowing wit, if verses writ with ease,
"If learning, void of pedantry, can please ;
"If much good humour, join'd to solid sense,
"And mirth, accompanied with innocence,
"Can give a poet a juft right to fame,
"Then CORBET may immortal honour claim
"For he these virtues had, and in his lines
"Poetic and heroic fpirit fhines;
"Tho' bright, yet folid, pleasant but not rude,
"With wit and wifdom equally endu'd.
"Be filent, Mufe, thy praises are too faint,
"Thou want'st a power this prodigy to paint,
"At once a poet, prelate, and a faint.
(Biog. Brit. in the Article CORBET.)
He must have wit to fpare, and to hurl down;
Enough to keep the gallants of the town.
He must have learning plenty; both the laws,
Civil and Common, to judge any caufe;
Divinity great ftore above the rest,
Not of the last edition, but the best.
He must have language, travel, all the arts,
Judgment to ufe, or else he wants thy parts.
He must have friends the higheft, able to do,
Such as Mecœnas, and Augustus too..
He must have such a sickness, fuch a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
He that would write an epitaph for thee
Should first be dead; let it alone for me.
MY EVER DESIRED DOCTOR DONNE.
BY H. KING, LATE BISHOP OF CHICHESTER.
To have liv'd eminent, in a degree
Beyond our loftieft thoughts, that is like thee;
Or t'have had too much merit is not safe,
For fuch exceffes find no epitaph.
At common graves we have poetic eyes,
Can melt themselves in eafy elegies;
Each quill can drop his tributary verse,
And pin it, like the hatchments, to the hearse:
But at thine, poem or infcription
(Rich foul of wit and language) we have none.
Indeed a filence does that tomb befit,
Where is no herald left to blazon it.
Widow'd Invention juftly doth forbear
To come abroad, knowing thou art not there:
Late her great patron, whofe prerogative
Maintain'd and cloth'd her fo, as none alive
Muft now presume to keep her at thy rate,
Though he the Indies for her dower estate.
Or else that awful fire which once did burn
In thy clear brain, now fallen into thy urn,
Lives there to fright rude empirics from thence,
Which might profane thee by their ignorance.
Whoever writes of thee, and in a style
Unworthy fuch a theme, does but revile
Thy precious duft, and wakes a learned spirit,
Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit.
T 2
For all a low-pitch'd fancy can devise
Will prove at best but hallowed injuries.
Thou, like the dying fwan, didft lately fing
Thy mournful dirge in audience of the king;
When pale looks and faint accents of thy breath
Prefented fo to life that piece of death,
That it was fear'd and prophefy'd by all
Thou thither cam'ft to preach thy funeral.
Oh! hadst thou in an elegiac knell
Rung out unto the world thine own farewel,
And in thy high victorious numbers beat
The folemn measures of thy griev'd retreat,
Thou might'ft the poet's fervice now have mist,
As well as then thou didst prevent the priest:
And never to the world beholden be,
So much as for an epitaph for thee.
I do not like the office: nor is't fit
Thou, who did'ft lend our age fuch fums of wit,
Shouldft now reborrow from her bankrupt mine
That oar to bury thee which firft was thine;
Rather ftill leave us in thy debt:-and know,
Exalted foul! more glory 'tis to owe
Thy memory, what we can never pay,
Than with embased coin thofe rites defray.
Commit we then thee to thyfelf, nor blame
Our drooping loves, that thus to thine own fame
Leave thee executor, fince but thine own
No pen could do thee juftice, nor bays crown
Thy vaft deferts; fave that we nothing can
Depute to be thy afhes' guardian.
So jewellers no art or metal trust
To form the diamond, but the diamond's duft.
AN ELEGY ON DOCTOR DONNE.
OUR Donne is dead! and we may fighing say,
We had that man where Language chose to stay
And fhew her utmoft power. I would not praise
That and his great wit, which in our vain days
Make others proud; but as these ferv'd to unlock
That cabinet, his mind, where fuch a stock.
Of knowledge was repos'd, that I lament.
Our juft and general caufe of difcontent.
And I rejoice I am not fo fevere,
But as I write a line, to weep a tear
For his decease: Such fad extremities
Can make fuch men as I write elegies..
And wonder not; for when fo great a lofs
Falls on a nation, and they flight the cross,
God hath rais'd prophets to awaken them
From their dull lethargy; witness my pen,
Not us'd to upbraid the world, though now it muftt
Freely and boldly, for the cause is just.
Dull age! oh, I would spare thee, but thou'rt worse
Thou art not only dull, but haft a curse
Of black ingratitude: If not, couldst thou
Part with this matchlefs man, and make no vow
For thee and thine fucceffively to pay
Some fad remembrance to his dying day?
Did his youth scatter poetry, wherein
Lay love's philofophy? Was every fin
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