Robert Wisdom

Was rector of Settrington in Yorkshire, and was presented to the archdeaconry of Ely by Elizabeth the 27th of February 1559-60. In bishop Cox’s Certificatorium (MS. Bennet Col. Lib.) he is returned to the archbishop as “a priest and B. D. usually residing upon his living of Wilberton, appropriated to the archdeaconry, was qualified for preaching, and licensed thereunto by the Queen’s majesty.”

He died, and was buried at Wilberton the 20th of September, 1568.

He is chiefly memorable for his metrical prayer intended to be sung in the church against the Pope and the Turk, of whom he seems to have had the most alarming apprehensions; and in consequence of which he has been ridiculed by sir John Denham, Corbet, Butler, and others.

TO THE GHOST OF ROBERT WISDOME.

Thou, once a body, now but aire, Arch-botcher of a psalme or prayer, From Carfax come; And patch mee up a zealous lay, With an old ever and for ay, Or, all and some. Or such a spirit lend mee, As may a hymne downe send mee, To purge my braine: So, Robert, looke behind thee, Least Turke or Pope doe find thee, And goe to bed againe.

THOMAS JONCE.

The name of this man, (Jones,) which Corbet, for the sake of the rhyme, has corrupted, sufficiently denotes his extraction; and I would have ascertained the time of his death, but the register was not to be found upon application for that purpose.

Antony à Wood says, in his History of the City of Oxford, “Thomas Jonce, a clergyman and inhabitant of this place, (St. Giles’s parish, Oxford,) desiring here to lay his bones, was of note sufficient to excite bishop Corbet to write an epitaph on him.”

‘Say’st thou this of thyself, or did others tell it thee of me?’

AN EPITAPH ON THOMAS JONCE.

Here, for the nonce, Came Thomas Jonce, In St. Giles church to lye.

None Welsh before, None Welshman more, Till Shon Clerk die.

I’ll tole the bell, I’ll ring his knell; He died well, He’s sav’d from hell; And so farwel Tom Jonce.

TO THE LADYES OF THE NEW DRESSE, THAT WEARE THEIR GORGETS AND RAYLES DOWNE TO THEIR WASTES.

Ladyes, that weare black cipress-vailes Turn’d lately to white linnen-rayles, And to your girdle weare your bands, And shew your armes instead of hands; What can you doe in Lent so meet As, fittest dress, to weare a sheet? ’Twas once a band, ’tis now a cloake, An acorne one day proves an oke: Weare but your linnen to your feet, And then your band will prove a sheet. By which devise, and wise excesse, You’l doe your penance in a dresse; And none shall know, by what they see, Which lady’s censur’d, and which free.

THE LADIES’ ANSWER.

(Harl. MS. No. 6396.)

Blacke cypresse vailes are shroudes on night, White linnen railes are raies of light, Which though we to the girdles weare, We’ve hands to keep your hands off there. A fitter dresse we have in Lent, To shew us trewly penitent. Whoe makes the band to be a cloke Makes John-a-style of John-an-oake. We weare our garments to the feet, Yet neede not make our bandes a sheet: The clergie weare as long as we, Yet that implies conformitie. Be wise, recant what you have writt, Least you doe pennance for your witte; Love’s charm hath power to weare a stringe, To tye you as you tied your ringe; There by love’s sharpe but just decree You may be censured, we go free.

CORBET’S REPLY.

(Ashmole’s Museum, A. 38. Fol. 66.)

Yff nought but love-charmes power have Your blemisht creditt for to save; Then know your champion is blind, And that love-nottes are soon untwinde. But blemishes are now a grace, And add a lustre to your face; Your blemisht credit for to save, You needed not a vayle to have; The rayle for women may be fitte, Because they daylie practice ytt. And, seeing counsell can you not reforme, Read this reply—and take ytt not in scorne.