I shall conclude all with these Verses, made to the Memory of this reverend person.

  He that would write an Epitaph for thee,
  And do it well, must first begin to be
  Such as thou wert; for none can truly know
  Thy worth, thy life, but he that lived so. 
  He must have wit to spare, and to hurl down,
  Enough to keep the Gallants of the Town. 
  He must have learning plenty, both the Laws
  Civil and Common, to judge any Cause;
  Divinity great store above the rest,
  None of the worst Edition, but the best: 
  He must have Language, Travel, all the Arts;
  Judgment to use, or else he wants thy parts: 
  He must have friends the highest, able to do,
  Such as Maecenas and Augustus too;
  He must have such a sickness, such a death,
  Or else his vain descriptions come beneath: 
    He must unto all good men be a friend,
    And (like to thee) must make a pious end.

* * * * *

Dr. RICHARD CORBET.

This reverend Doctor was born at Ewel in Surrey; a witty Poet in his youth, witness his Iter Boreale, and other facetious Poems, which were the effects of his juvenal fancy; He was also one of those celebrated Wits, which with Mr. Benjamin Johnson, Mr. Whitaker, Sir Joh.  Harrington, Dr. Donne, Mr. Drayton, Mr. Davis, whom I mentioned before, and several others, wrote those mock commendatory Verses on Coriats Crudities; which, because the Book is scarce, and very few have seen it, I shall give you them as they are recited in the Book.

  I do not wonder, Coriat, that thou hast
  Over the Alps, through France, and Savoy, past,
  Parcht on thy skin, and founder’d in thy feet,
  Faint, thirsty, lousie, and didst live to see’t. 
  Tho’ these are Roman sufferings, and do show
  What Creatures back thou hadst, could carry so;
  All I admire is thy return, and how
  Thy slender pasterns could thee bear, when now
  Thy observations with thy brain ingendred,
  Have stufft thy massy and volumnious head
  With Mountains, Abbeys, Churches, Synagogues,
  Preputial Offals, and Dutch Dialogues: 
  A burthen far more grievous than the weight
  Of Wine or Sleep, more vexing then the freight
  Of Fruit and Oysters, which lade many a pate,
  And send folks crying home from Billings-gate. 
  No more shall man with Mortar on his head
  Set forward towards Rome:  no, Thou art bred
  A terror to all Footmen, and to Porters,
  And all Lay-men that will turn Jews Exhorters,
  To fly their conquer’d trade:  Proud England then
  Embrace this luggage, which the man of men
  Hath landed here, and change thy Welladay
  Into some home-spun welcome Roundelay. 
  Send of this stuff thy Territories thorough,
  To Ireland, Wales, and Scottish Edenborough;
  There let this Book be read and understood,
  Where is no theme, nor writer half so good.