He was very hospitable and a generous encourager of all public designs. When in the year 1634 St. Paul's cathedral was repaired, he not only contributed himself, but was very diligent in procuring contributions from others. His works are difficult to be met with, but from such of his poems as we have had occasion to read, he seems to have been a witty, delicate writer, and to have had a particular talent for panegyric. Wood says, a collection of his poems was published under the title of Poetica Stromata, in 8vo. London 1647. In his Iter Boreale, or Journey Northward, we meet with a fine moral reflexion on the burial place of Richard III. and Cardinal Wolsey, who were both interred at Leicester; with which we shall present the reader as a specimen of his poetry. Is not usurping Richard buried here, That King of hate, and therefore slave of fear? Dragg'd from the fatal Bosworth field where he, Lost life, and what he liv'd for,--Cruelty: Search, find his name, but there is none: O Kings, Remember whence your power and vastness springs; If not as Richard now, so may you be, Who hath no tomb, but scorn and memory. And tho' from his own store, Wolsey might have A Palace or a College for his grave, Yet here he lies interred, as if that all Of him to be remembered were his fall. Nothing but Earth on Earth, no pompous weight Upon him, but a pebble or a quoit. If thou art thus neglected, what shall we, Hope after death, that are but shreds of thee! The author of the Biographia Britanica tells us, that he found in a blank leaf of his poems, some manuscript verses, in honour of Bishop Corbet signed J.C. with which, as they are extremely pretty, and make a just representation of his poetical character, we shall conclude this life. In flowing wit, if verses writ with ease, If learning void of pedantry can please, If much good humour joined to solid sense, And mirth accompanied with innocence, Can give a poet a just right to fame, Then Corbet may immortal honour claim; For he these virtues had, and in his lines, Poetic and heroic spirit shines; Tho' bright yet solid, pleasant, but not rude, With wit and wisdom equally endued. Be silent Muse, thy praises are too faint, Thou want'st a power this prodigy to paint, At once a poet, prelate, and a saint. [Footnote 1: Athen. Oxon. vol. I. col. 600--I.] [Footnote 2: Winstanley.] [Footnote 3: Wood. ubi. supra. fol. 509.] * * * * * EDWARD FAIRFAX.