« السابقةمتابعة »
SIR HENRY WOTTON
Was born in Kent, in 1568; educated at Winchester and Oxford; and, after travelling on the Continent, became the Secretary of Essex, but had the sagacity to foresee his downfall, and withdrew from the kingdom in time. On his return he became a favourite of James I., who employed him to be ambassador to Venice,a post he held long, and occupied with great skill and adroitness. Toward the end of his days, in order to gain the Provostship of Eton, he took orders, and died in that situation, in 1639, in the 72d year of his age. His writings were published in 1651, under the title of 'Reliquiæ Wottonianæ,' and Izaak Walton has written an entertaining account of his life. His poetry has a few pleasing and smooth-flowing passages; but perhaps the best thing recorded of him is his vivâ voce account of an English ambassador, as an honest gentleman sent to LIE abroad for the good of his country.'
FAREWELL TO THE VANITIES OF THE WORLD.
1 Farewell, ye gilded follies! pleasing troubles;
Farewell, ye honour'd rags, ye glorious bubbles;
2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still
Level his rays against the rising hill;
I would be high, but see the proudest oak
3 Would the world now adopt me for her heir,
Would beauty's queen entitle me 'the fair,
4 Welcome, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves !
These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves. Now the wing'd people of the sky shall sing
1 Angels:' a species of coin,
My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring;
O thou great Power ! in whom we move,
By whom we live, to whom we die,
Whilst on this couch of tears I lie,
No hallow'd oils, no gums I need,
No new-born drams of purging fire;
Was worlds of seas to quench thine ire:
And said by him, that said no more,
But seal'd it with his sacred breath:
And dying wert the death of death,
He was a
This witty and good-natured bishop was born in 1582. He was the son of a gardener, who, however, had the honour to be known to and sung by Ben Jonson. He was educated at Westminster and Oxford ; and having received orders, was made successively Bishop of Oxford and of Norwich. most facetious and rather too convivial person; and a collection of anecdotes about him might be made, little inferior, in point of wit and coarseness, to that famous one, once so popular in Scotland, relating to the sayings and doings of George Buchanan. He is said, on one occasion, to have aided an unfortunate balladsinger in his professional duty by arraying himself in his leathern jacket and vending the stock, being possessed of a fine presence and a clear, full, ringing voice. Occasionally doffing his clerical costume he adjourned with his chaplain, Dr Lushington, to the wine cellar, where care and ceremony were both speedily drowned, the one of the pair exclaiming, "Here's to thee, Lushington,' and the other, 'Here's to thee, Corbet.' Men winked at these irregularities, probably on the principle mentioned by Scott, in reference to Prior Aymer, in ‘Ivanhoe,'— If Prior Aymer rode hard in the chase, or remained late at the banquet, men only shrugged up their shoulders by recollecting that the same irregularities were practised by many of his brethren, who had no redeeming qualities whatsoever to atone for them.' Corbet, on the other hand, was a kind as well as a convivial—a warmhearted as well as an eccentric man. He was tolerant to the Puritans and sectaries; his attention to his duties was respectable; his talents were of a high order, and he had in him a vein of genius of no ordinary kind. He died in 1635, but his poems were not published till 1647. They are of various merit, and treat of various subjects. In his "Journey to France,' you see the humorist, who, on one occasion, when the country people were flocking to be confirmed, cried, “Bear off there, or I'll confirm ye with my staff.' In his lines to his son Vincent, we see, notwithstanding all his foibles, the good man; and in his Farewell to the Fairies' the fine and fanciful poet.
DR CORBET'S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.
1 I went from England into France, Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride nor fence;
They carried from hence.
2 But I to Paris rode along,
Upon a holy tide;
And spurr'd him on each side.
3 And to St Denis fast we came, To see the sights of Notre Dame,
(The man that shows them snuffles,) Where who is apt for to believe, May see our Lady's right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;
4 Her breast, her milk, her very gown That she did wear in Bethlehem town,
When in the inn she lay;
Upon a lock of hay.
5 No carpenter could by his trade Gain so much coin as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff;