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Wretched and foolish jealousy,

How cam'st thou thus to enter me?
I ne'er was of thy kind;

Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poor desire,

That others should not warm them at my fire: I wish the sun should shine

On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as mine.

But under the disguise of love,

Thou say'st, thou only cam'st to prove
What my affections were:

Think'st thou that love is helped by fear?
Go, get thee quickly forth!

Love's sickness, and his noted want of worth,
Seek doubting men to please;

I ne'er will owe my health to a disease.


Or scorn, or pity, on me take,
I must the true relation make:
I am undone to-night!

Love in a subtle dream disguised,

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,
In all my wild desire,

Of Sleep again, who was his aid,

And Sleep so guilty and afraid,

As since he dares not come within my sight.


I have my piety too, which, could

It vent itself but as it would,

Would say as much as both have done
Before me here, the friend and son;

For I both lost a friend and father,
Of him whose bones this grave doth gather,
Dear Vincent Corbet, who so long

Had wrestled with diseases strong,

That though they did possess each limb,
Yet he broke them, ere they could him,
With the just canon of his life,

A life that knew nor noise nor strife;

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,
All order, and disposure still.

His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his nurseries, and swept
So of uncleanness, or offence,
That never came ill odor thence!

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
To license ever was so light,
As twice to trespass in his sight;

His looks would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet not the men.
Much from him I profess I won,
And more, and more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant;
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!

Reader, whose life and name did e'er become
An epitaph, deserved a tomb:

Nor wants it here through penury or sloth,

Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both.



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


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

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 Earl 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. Gifford tells us that this epistle addressed to him by Jonson was the favorite poem of Horne 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


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

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

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