I heere offer to view a collection of certaine peices of poetry, which have _flowne_ from hand to hand, these many yeares, in _private_ papers, but were never _fixed_ for the _publique_ eie of the worlde to looke upon, till now[34]. If that witt which runnes in every veyne of them seeme somewhat _out of fashion_, because tis neither _amorous_ nor _obscene_, thou must remember that the author, although scarse a _Divine_ when many of them were written, had not only so _masculine_ but even so _modest_ a witt also, that he would lett nothing fall from his pen but what he himselfe might owne, and never blush, when he was a _bishop_; little imagining the age would ever come, when his calling should prove more out of fashion than his witt could. As concerning any thing else to be added in commendation of the author, I shall never thinke of it; for as for those men who did _knowe him_, or ever _heard of him_, they need none of _my good opinion_: and as for those who _knew him not_, and never so much as _heard of him_, I am sure he needs none of _theirs_. Farewell. COMMENDATORY POEMS. TO THE DEANE, (From Flower in Northamptonshire, 1625,) NOW THE WORTHY BISHOP OF NORWICH. BY ROBERT GOMERSALL[35]. Still to be silent, or to write in prose, Were alike sloth, such as I leave to those Who either want the grace of wit, or have Untoward arguments: like him that gave Life to the flea, or who without a guest Would prove that famine was the only feast; Self tyrants, who their braines doubly torment, Both for their matter and their ornament. If these do stutter sometimes, and confesse That they are tired, we could expect no lesse. But when my matter is prepared and fit, When nothing’s wanting but an equal wit, I need no Muse’s help to ayde me on, Since that my subject is my Helicon. And such are you: O give me leave, dear sir, (He that is thankful is no flatterer,) To speak full truth: Wherever I find worth, I shew I have it if I set it forth: You read yourself in these; here you may see A ruder draft of Corbet’s infancy. For I professe, if ever I had thought Needed not blush if publish’d, were there ought Which was call’d mine durst beare a critic’s view, I was the instrument, but the author you. I need not tell you of our health, which here Must be presum’d, nor yet shall our good cheare Swell up my paper, as it has done me, Or as the Mayor’s feast does Stowe’s History: Without an early bell to make us rise, Health calls us up and novelty; our eyes Have divers objects still on the same ground, As if the Earth had each night walk’d her round To bring her best things hither: ’tis a place Not more the pride of shires then the disgrace, Which I’de not leave, had I my Dean to boot, For the large offers of the cloven-foot Unto our Saviour, but you not being here