Certain elegant poems, written by Dr. Corbet, Bishop of Norvvich

To the Duke of Buckingham.

I'Ve read of Ilands floating and remov'd In Ovids time, but never saw it prov'd,

Till now; that fable by the Prince and you, (By your transporting England) is made true. We are not whore we were, the dog-Star reignes No cooler in our climate, then in Spaines; The selfesame breath, same age, same heate, same burning Is here, and there, 'twill be till your returning; Come ere the Cards be altred, else perhaps Your stay may make an errour in our mappes, Lest England will be sound when you shall passe, A thousand times more Southward then it was; O that you were (my Lord) O that you were Now in Black-Friers, or had a disguis'd eare, Or you were Smith againe two houres to be In Pauls next Sunday, at sull Sea at three; There you should heare the Legends of each day, The perills of your Inne, and of your way Your enterprizes, accidents untill You should arrive at Court and reach Madrill. There should you heare how the States grandees •…•…out you, With their twice diligence about you, How one inviron'd Prince walkes with a guard, Of Spanish spies, and his owne servants barr'd; How not a Chaplaine of his owne may stay When he would heare a Sermon preacht, or pray. You would be hungry having din'd to heare The price of victuall, and the scarcity there, As if the Prince had ventured there his life To make a samine, not to setch a wise. Your Egges (which must be addle too) are deare As English Capons, Capons as sheepe here. No grasse for horse or cattle, for they say It is not cut and made, grasse there growes hay,

Then 'tis so seething hor, they sweare You never heard of raw Oyster there; Your cold meate comes in reeking, there your wint Is all burnt Sacke, the fire was in the vine; Item the Pullers are distinguisht there Into soure quarters, as we branch the yeare, And are a weeke a wasting; Munday noone A wing, at supper something with a spoone; Tuesday a leg, and so forth, Sunday more, The Liver and the gizzards betwixt foure; As for the mutton, in the best house holder, 'Tis selony to cheapen a whole shoulder: Lord how our stomacks come to us againe, When we conceive what snatching is in Spaine? I whilst I write and doe your newes repeate, Am forc'r to call for breakefast in and eate; And doe you wonder at this dearth the while The flood that makes it runs ith' middle Ile, Poets of Pauls, these of Duke Hum•…•… messe, That feed on naught but graves and emptinesse. But hearke you noble Sir, in one crosse weeke, My Lord hath lost 4000. l. at Gleeke, And sith they doe allow you little meate, They are content your losses should be great; False on my Deanery, •…•…alser then your sare is Or then the difference with the Grand d'Olivaries, Which was reported strongly for one tide, But after six houres flowing eb'd and dy'd. If God would not this great designe should be, Perfect and round without some knavery, Nor that our Prince should end this enterprize, But for so many tales, so many lies.

〈…〉〈…〉 for a good intent the heavens may please, •…•…ens tongues should become rougher then the •…•…as, •…•…nd that th'expence of paper should be such, •…•…irst written, then translated out of Dutch, •…•…urrants, diaries, packets, newes, more newes Which innocent whitenesse constan•…•…ly abuse 〈…〉〈…〉 first the Belgick pismire must be seene, Before the Spanish Lady be our Queene, With that successe and such an end at last, All's welcome, pleasant, gratefull that is past, And such an end I pray that you may see A type of that which mother Zebedee Wisht for her Sonnes in heaven, the Prince and you At either hand of James, you need not sue, Him on the right, you on the lest, the King Safe in the middest you both invironing, Then shall I tell my Lord his words and band Are forfeit till I kisse the Prince his hand, Then shall I tell the Duke our royall friend, How all your other honours, this hath earn'd, This you have w•…•…ought for, this you hammerd out, Like a strong Smith, good workman, and a stout; In this I have a part, in this I see Some new addition smiling upon me; Who in an humble manner crave my share In all your greatnesse whatso'ere they are.

R. Corbet.