Born in 1573; died March 31, 1631.
He that would write an epitaph for thee,
And do it well, must first begin to be
Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
Thy worth, thy life, but he that hath liv’d so.
He must have wit to spare, 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 store, above the rest,
Not of the last 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 Mecænas and Augustus too.
He must have such a sickness, such a death,
Or else his vain descriptions come beneath.
Who then shall write an epitaph for thee,
He must be dead first; let ’t alone for me.
CERTAIN FEW WOORDES SPOKEN CONCERNINGE ONE BENET CORBETT AFTER HER
DECEASE.
She died October the 2d, Anno 1634.
(From MS. Harl. No. 464.)
Here, or not many feet from hence,
The virtue lies call’d Patience.
Sickness and Death did do her honour
By loosing paine and feare upon her.
Tis true they forst her to a grave,
That’s all the triumph that they have....
A silly one.... Retreat o’er night
Proves conquest in the morning-fight:
She will rise up against them both....
All sleep, believe it, is not sloth.
And, thou that read’st her elegie,
Take something of her historie:
She had one husband and one sonne;
Ask who they were, and then have doone.