DOCTOR CORBET, LATE BISHOP OF OXFORD,
ON HIS FRIEND, DOCTOR DONNE.
HE that would write an epitaph for thee,
And write it well, muft firft begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy life and worth, but he that hath liv'd fo.
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 cause.
Divinity great ftore above the rest,
Not of the laft edition, but the best.
He must have language, travel, all the arts,
Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts.
He must have friends the highest, able to do,
Such as Mæcenas and Auguftus too.
He must have fuch a fickness, fuch a death,
Or elfe his vain defcriptions come beneath.
He that would write an epitaph for thee,
Should firft 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 justly 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 prefume to keep her at thy rate,
Tho' he the Indies for her dower eftate.
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 ftyle
Unworthy fuch a theme, does but revile
Thy precious duft, and wakes a learned spirit,
Which may revenge his rapes upon thy merit:
For all a low-pitch'd fancy can devise
Will prove at beft but hallow'd injuries.
Thou like the dying swan 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, hadft thou in an elegiac knell
Rung out unto the world thine own farewell,
And in thy high victorious numbers beat
The folemn measures of thy griev'd retreat,
Thou might'ft the poet's service now have mift,
As well as then thou didft prevent the prieft;
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 didft lend our age fuch fums of wit,
Should'ft now reborrow from her bankrupt mine
That ore to bury thee which first 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 those rites defray.
Commit we then thee to thyself, 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 ashes' guardian.
So Jewellers no art or metal truft
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 ftay,
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 serv'd to unlock
That cabinet his mind, where fuch a ftock
Of knowledge was repos'd, that I lament
Our juft and general cause of discontent.
And I rejoice I am not fo fevere, But as I write a line, to weep a tear For his decease; fuch 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 muft
Freely and boldly, for the cause is juft.
Dull age! oh, I would spare thee, but thou 'rt worse : Thou art not only dull, but haft a curfe
Of black ingratitude; if not, couldft 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 Pictur'd in his sharp fatires, made fo foul,
That some have fear'd fin's fhapes, and kept their foul
Safer by reading verfe? Did he give days,
Paft marble monuments, to those whofe praise
He would perpetuate? Did he (I fear
Envy will doubt) these at his twentieth year?
But, more matur'd, did his rich foul conceive,
And in harmonious holy numbers weave
A crown of facred fonnets, fit t'adorn
A dying martyr's brow, or to be worn
On that bleft head of Mary Magdalen,
After she wip'd Chrift's feet, but not till then?
Did he (fit for fuch penitents as the
And he to use) leave us a Letanie,
Which all devout men love, and doubtlefs fhall,
As times grow better, grow more claffical?
Did he write hymns, for piety and wit,
Equal to those great grave Prudentius writ?
|