This match a riddle may be styled, Two mothers now have but one child; Yet need we not a Solomon, Each mother here enjoyes her own. Many there are I know have tried To make her their own lovely bride; But it is Alexander’s lot To cut in twaine the Gordian knot: Claudia, to prove that she was chast, Tyed but a girdle to her wast, And drew a ship to Rome by land: But now the world may understand Here is a Claudia too; fair bride, Thy spotlesse innocence is tried; None but thy girdle could have led Our Corbet to a marriage bed. Come, all ye Muses, and rejoice At this your nurslings happy choice: Come, Flora, strew the bridemaid’s bed, And with a garland crowne her head; Or if thy flowers be to seek, Come gather roses at her cheek. Come, Hymen, light thy torches, let Thy bed with tapers be beset, And if there be no fire by, Come light thy taper at her eye; In that bright eye there dwells a starre, And wise men by it guided are. In those delicious eyes there be Two little balls of ivory: How happy is he then that may With these two dainty balls goe play. Let not a teare drop from that eye, Unlesse for very joy to cry. O let your joy continue! may A whole age be your wedding-day! O happy virgin! is it true That your deare spouse embraceth you? Then you from heaven are not farre, But sure in Abraham’s bosom are. Come, all ye Muses, and rejoyce At your Apollo’s happy choice. VERSES IN HONOUR OF BISHOP CORBET, Found in a blank leaf of his Poems in MS. If 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 honours claim; For he these virtues had, and in his lines Poetic and heroic spirit shines; Though 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. J. C. UPON MY GOOD LORD THE BISHOP OF NORWICHE, RICHARD CORBET, _WHO DYED JULY 28, 1635_, AND LYES BURIED IN HIS CATHEDRAL CHURCHE. [By Mr. JOHN TAYLOR of NORWICH: From the Cabinet, published there in 1795.] Ye rural bardes who haunte the budding groves, Tune your wilde reeds to sing the wood-larkes loves, And let the softe harpe of the hawthorn vale Melt in sweete euloge to the nightingale; Yet haplie, Drummond, well thy muse might raise Aires not earth-born to suit my _raven’s_ praise.