On Dr. Corbet’s Marriage

Come all yee Muses and rejoiceAt your Apolloe’s happy choice;Phœbus has conquer’d Cupid’s charme;Fair Daphne flys into his arm.If Daphne be a tree, then mark,Apollo is become the barke.If Daphne be a branch of bay,He weares her for a crowne to-day:O happy bridegroom! which dost wedThyself unto a virgin’s bed.Let thy love burne with hot desire,She lacks no oil to feed the fire.You know not poore Pigmalion’s lot,Nor have you a mere idol got.You no Ixion, you no proudJuno makes embrace a cloud.Looke how pure Diana’s skinAppeares as it is shadow’d inA chrystal streame; or look what graceShines in fair Venus’ lovely face,Whilst she Adonis courts and woos;Such beauties, yea and more than those,Sparkle in her; see but her soul,And you will judge those beauties foul.Her rarest beauty is within,She’s fairest where she is not seen;Now her perfection’s characterYou have approv’d, and chosen her.O precious! she at this weddingThe jewel weares—the marriage ring.Her understanding’s deep: like theVenetian duke, you wed the sea;A sea deep, bottomless, profound,And which none but yourself may sound.Blind Cupid shot not this love-dart;Your reason chose, and not your heart;You knew her little, and when herApron was but a muckender,When that same coral which doth deckHer lips she wore about her neck:You courted her, you woo’d her, notOut of a window, she was gotAnd born your wife; it may be saidHer cradle was her marriage-bed.The ring, too, was layd up for itUntill her finger was growne fit:You once gave her to play withalA babie, and I hope you shallThis day your ancient gift renew,So she will do the same for you:In virgin wax imprint, uponHer breast, your own impression;You may (there is no treason in ’t)Coine sterling, now you have a mint.You are now stronger than before,Your side hath in it one ribb more.Before she was akin to meOnly in soul and amity;But now we are, since shee’s your bride,In soul and body both allyde:’Tis this has made me less to do,And I in one can honour two.This match a riddle may be styled,Two mothers now have but one child;Yet need we not a Solomon,Each mother here enjoyes her own.Many there are I know have triedTo make her their own lovely bride;But it is Alexander’s lotTo cut in twaine the Gordian knot:Claudia, to prove that she was chast,Tyed but a girdle to her wast,And drew a ship to Rome by land:But now the world may understandHere is a Claudia too; fair bride,Thy spotlesse innocence is tried;None but thy girdle could have ledOur Corbet to a marriage bed.Come, all ye Muses, and rejoiceAt this your nurslings happy choice:Come, Flora, strew the bridemaid’s bed,And with a garland crowne her head;Or if thy flowers be to seek,Come gather roses at her cheek.Come, Hymen, light thy torches, letThy bed with tapers be beset,And if there be no fire by,Come light thy taper at her eye;In that bright eye there dwells a starre,And wise men by it guided are.In those delicious eyes there beTwo little balls of ivory:How happy is he then that mayWith these two dainty balls goe play.Let not a teare drop from that eye,Unlesse for very joy to cry.O let your joy continue! mayA whole age be your wedding-day!O happy virgin! is it trueThat your deare spouse embraceth you?Then you from heaven are not farre,But sure in Abraham’s bosom are.Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyceAt your Apollo’s happy choice.

If flowing wit, if verses writ with ease,If learning void of pedantry can please;If much good-humour joined to solid sense,And mirth accompanied with innocence,Can give a poet a just right to fame,Then Corbet may immortal honours claim;For he these virtues had, and in his linesPoetic and heroic spirit shines;Though bright yet solid, pleasant but not rude,With wit and wisdom equally endued.Be silent, Muse, thy praises are too faint,Thou want’st a power this prodigy to paint,At once a poet, prelate, and a saint.

Ye rural bardes who haunte the budding groves,Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves,And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn valeMelt in sweete euloge to the nightingale;Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy muse might raiseAires not earth-born to suit my raven’s praise.

Raven he was, yet was no gloomie fowle,Merrie at hearte, though innocente of soule;Where’er he perkt, the birds that came anigheConstrayned caught the humour of his eye:Under that shade no spights and wrongs were spred,Care came not nigh with his uncomlie head.

Somewhile the thicke embranching trees amonge,Where Isis doth his waters leade alonge,Kissinge with modeste lippe the holie soyle,Reflecting backe each hallowed grove the while;Here did my raven trie his dulcive note,Charming old Science with his mellow throat.

Sometimes with scholiasts deep in anciente lore,Through learnings long defyles he would explore;Then with keene wit untie the perplext knotOf Aristotle or the cunning Scot;Anon loud laughter shook the arched hall,For mirth stood redy at his potente call.

Oxforde, thou couldst not binde his outspred wing,My raven flew where bade his princelye king;Norwiche must honours give he did not crave,Norwiche must lend his palace and his grave:And that kinde hearte which gave such vertue birthMust here be shrouded in the greedie earth.

Ofte hath thy humble lay-clerke led along,When thou wert by, the eve or matin song;And oftimes rounde thy marble shall he strole,To chaunte sad requiems to thy soothed soul;—Sleep on, till Gabriel’s trump shall break thy sleep,And thou and I one heavenlie holiday shall keep.