Vincent Corbet, farther knowne
By Poynters name, then by his owne,
Here lyes ingaged till the day
Of raising bones, and quickning clay.
Nor wonder, reader, that he hath
Two surnames in his epitaph;
For this one did comprehend
All that two familyes could lend:
And if to know more arts then any
Could multiply one into many,
Here a colony lyes, then,
Both of qualityes and men.
Yeares he liv’d well nigh fourscore;
But count his vertues, he liv’d more;
And number him by doeing good,
He liv’d their age beyond the Flood.
Should wee undertake his story,
Truth would seeme fain’d, and plainesse glory:
Beside, this tablet were too small,
Add to the pillers and the wall.
Yet of this volume much is found,
Written in many a fertill ground;
Where the printer thee affords
Earth for paper, trees for words.
He was Natures factour here,
And legier lay for every sheire;
To supply the ingenious wants
Of some spring-fruites, and forraigne plants.
Simple he was, and wise withall;
His purse nor base, nor prodigall;
Poorer in substance then in freinds;
Future and publicke were his endes;
His conscience, like his dyett, such
As neither tooke nor left too much:
Soe that made lawes were uselesse growne
To him, he needed but his owne.
Did he his neighbours bid, like those
That feast them only to enclose?
Or with their rost meate racke their rents,
And cozen them with their consents?
Noe; the free meetings at his boord
Did but one litterall sence afforde;
Noe close or aker understood,
But only love and neighbourhood.
His alms were such as Paul defines,
Not causes to be said, but signes;
Which alms, by faith, hope, love, laid down,
Laid up what now he wears ... a crown.
Besides his fame, his goods, his life,
He left a greiv’d sonne, and a wife;
Straunge sorrow, not to be beleiv’d,
Whenas the sonne and heire is greiv’d.
Reade then, and mourne, what ere thou art
That doost hope to have a part
In honest epitaphs; least, being dead,
Thy life bee written, and not read.