Have I renounc’t my faith, or basely sold Salvation, and my loyalty, for gold? Have I some forreigne practice undertooke By poyson, shott, sharp-knife, or sharper booke To kill my king? have I betrayd the state To fire and fury, or some newer fate, Which learned murderers, those grand destinies, The Jesuites, have nurc’d? if of all these I guilty am, proceed; I am content That Mallet take mee for my punishment. For never sinne was of so high a rate, But one nights hell with her might expiate. Although the law with Garnet[57], and the rest, Dealt farr more mildly; hanging’s but a jest To this immortall torture. Had shee bin then In Maryes torrid dayes engend’red, when Cruelty was witty, and Invention free Did live by blood, and thrive by crueltye, Shee would have bin more horrid engines farre Than fire, or famine, racks, and halters are. Whether her witt, forme, talke, smile, tire I name, Each is a stock of tyranny, and shame; But for her breath, spectatours come not nigh, That layes about; God blesse the company! The man, in a beares skin baited to death, Would chose the doggs much rather then her breath; One kisse of hers, and eighteene wordes alone Put downe the _Spanish Inquisition_. Thrice happy wee (quoth I thinking thereon) That see no dayes of persecution; For were it free to kill, this grisly elfe Wold martyrs make in compass of herselfe: And were shee not prevented by our prayer, By this time shee corrupted had the aire. And am I innocent? and is it true, That thing (which poet Plinye never knew, Nor Africk, Nile, nor ever Hackluyts eyes Descry’d in all his _East, West-voyages_; That thing, which poets were afrayd to feigne, For feare her shadowe should infect their braine; This spouse of Antichrist, and his alone, Shee’s drest so like the Whore of Babylon;) Should doate on mee? as if they did contrive The devill and she, to damne a man alive. Why doth not _Welcome_ rather purchase her, And beare about this rare familiar? Sixe markett dayes, a wake, and a fayre too ’t, Would save his charges, and the ale to boot. No tyger’s like her; shee feedes upon a man Worse than a tygresse or a leopard can. Let mee go pray, and thinke upon some spell, At once to bid the devill and her farwell. HENRY PRINCE OF WALES. Upon the death of the promising Henry (Nov. 6, 1612), a prince, according to Arthur Wilson[58], as eminent in nobleness as in blood, and who fell not without suspicion of foul play, the poets his cotemporaries, whom he liberally patronised, poured forth by reams their tributary verses. Corbet, as it has been before observed, pronounced his funeral oration at Oxford.