It luckily happened at this time, that the Provostship of his Majesty’s college at Eaton became vacant by the death of Mr. Murray, for which there were many earnest and powerful sollicitations.  This place was admirably suited to the course of life Wotton resolved to pursue, for the remaining part of his days; he had seen enough of the world to be sick of it, and being now three-score years of age, he thought a college was the fittest place to indulge contemplation, and to rest his body and mind after a long struggle on the theatre of life.  In his suit for this place he was happily successful, and immediately entered into holy orders, which was necessary, before he could take possession of his new office.  Walton has related the particular manner of his spending his time, which was divided between attendance upon public devotion, the more private duties of religion, and the care which his function demanded from him of the affairs of the college.  In the year 1639 Sir Henry died in Eaton-College, and was buried in the chapel belonging to it.  He directed the following sentence to be put upon a marble monument to be erected over him.

  Hic jacit hujus sententiae primus author.  Disputandi
  pruritus ecclesiarum scabies.  Nomen alias
  quaere.

Which may be thus rendered into English;

  Here lyeth the first author of this sentence.

  The itch of disputation will prove the scab of the
  church.

  Enquire his name elsewhere.

Sir Henry Wotton has been allowed by all critics to be a man of real and great genius, an upright statesman, a polite courtier, compassionate and benevolent to those in distress, charitable to the poor, and in a word, an honest man and a pious christian.  As a poet he seems to have no considerable genius.  His versification is harmonious, and sometimes has an air of novelty, his turns are elegant, and his thoughts have both dignity and propriety to recommend them.  There is a little piece amongst his collections called the World, which we shall quote, before we give an account of his works.

  The world’s a bubble:  and the life of man,
  Less than a span. 
  In his conception wretched:  from the womb,
  So to the tomb,
  Nurst from his cradle, and brought up to years,
  With cares and fears. 
  Who then to frail mortality shall trust,
  But lymns in water, or but writes in dust. 
  Yet whil’st with sorrow here we live opprest,
  What life is best? 
  Courts are but only superficial schools,
  To dandle fools: 
  The rural part is turned into a den
  Of savage men: 
  And where’s a city from vice so free,
  But may be termed the word of all the three? 
  Domestic cares afflict the husband’s bed,
  Or pains his head. 
  Those that live single take it for a curse,
  Or do things worse,
  These would have children, those that have them none,
  Or wish them gone: