fall from his pen but what he himselfe might

owne, and never blush, when he was a bishop'; little imagining the age would ever come,

when his calling should prove more out of fashion than his witt could. As concerning any thing else to be added in commendation of the author, I shall never thinke of it; for as for those men who did knowe him, or ever heard of him, they need none of my good opinion: and as for those who knew him not, and never so much as heard of him, I am sure he needs none of theirs.

Farewell..

COMMENDATORY POEMS.

TO

THE DEANE,

(From Flower in Northamptonshire, 1625,)

NOW THE WORTHY BISHOP OF NORWICH.
BY ROBERT GOMERSALL'S

STILL to be silent, or to write in prose,
Were alike sloth, 'such as I leave to those
Who either want the grace of wit, or have
Untoward arguments: like him that

gave

1 Robert Gomersall was entered of Christ-Church, Oxford, in 1614, at the age of fourteen, where, in 1621, he proceeded M. A. In 1625 he took refuge from the plague at Flore in Northamptonshire, of which the editor of the Biographia Dramatica erroneously supposed he was rector. He was afterwards vicar of Thorncombe in Devonshire, and died in 1646. His poems, which are rather easy than correct, were published with Lodwick Sforza, a tragedy, in 1633 and 1638, from which the above epistle is transcribed.

Life to the flea, or who without a guest
Would prove that famine was the only feast;
Self tyrants, who their braines doubly torment,
Both for their matter and their ornament.
If these do stutter sometimes, and confesse
That they are tired, we could expect no lesse.
But when my matter is prepared and fit,
When nothing's wanting but an equal wit,
I need no Muse's help to ayde me on,

Since that my subject is my Helicon.

And such are you: O give me leave, dear sir, (He that is thankful is no flatterer,)

To speak full truth: Wherever I find worth,

I shew I have it if I set it forth :

You read yourself in these; here you may see A ruder draft of Corbet's infancy.

For I professe, if ever I had thought Needed not blush if publish'd, were there ought Which was call'd mine durst beare a critic's view, I was the instrument, but the author you.