SIR THOMAS AYLESBURY,
A Londoner born, was second son of William Aylesbury by Anne his wife, daughter of John Poole, esq., and from Westminster School removed to Christ-Church, Oxford, in 1598, where he became a fellow-student with Corbet, and where, on the 9th of June 1605, they took the degree of master of arts together.
Aylesbury, after he had left Oxford, became secretary to Charles Howard, earl of Nottingham, lord high admiral of England, and in 1618, when the latter resigned his office, was continued in the same employment under Howard’s successor, George Villiers, then marquis, and afterwards duke of Buckingham. Under the patronage of Villiers he was appointed one of the masters of the requests, and on the 19th of April 1627 created a baronet, and soon afterwards obtained the office of master of the mint. He retained his places until the breaking out of the civil wars in 1642, and faithfully adhering to the cause of Charles the First, retired with his family, in 1649, after the execution of that unfortunate monarch, to Antwerp in Brabant, and continued there until 1652, when he removed to Breda, where he died in 1657, aged 81, and was buried in the great church.
He was “a learned man, and as great a lover and encourager of learning and learned men, especially of mathematicians, (he being one himself) as any man in his time.”
He had a son, William, who was a man of learning, and tutor to the two sons of his father’s patron, Villiers, but died issueless in Jamaica in the service of Cromwell in the same year with his father: and a daughter, Frances, (sole heir of her father and brother) who, in 1634, became the wife of Edward Hyde, afterwards earl of Clarendon, and was grandmother to queen Mary the Second, and to queen Anne.
I have been the more particular in noticing what relates to sir Thomas Aylesbury, since bishop Corbet’s advancement at court followed, though it trode close upon the heels of, that of Aylesbury, which leads me to presume that the latter was in some degree Corbet’s patron as well as friend and companion.
A LETTER
SENT FROM
Dr. CORBET TO Sir THOMAS AILESBURY,
December the 9th, 1618.
ON THE OCCASION OF A BLAZING STAR.
My brother and much more, hadst thou been mine,
Hadst thou in one rich present of a line
Inclos’d sir Francis, for in all this store
No gift can cost thee less, or binde me more;
Hadst thou (dear churle) imparted his return,
I should not with a tardy welcome burn;
But had let loose my joy at him long since,
Which now will seem but studied negligence:
But I forgive thee, two things kept thee from it,
First such a friend to gaze on, next a comet;
Which comet we discern, though not so true
As you at Sion, as long tayl’d as you;
We know already how will stand the case,
With Barnavelt[65] of universal grace,
Though Spain deserve the whole star, if the fall
Be true of Lerma duke and cardinal[66]:
Marry, in France we fear no blood, but wine;
Less danger’s in her sword, than in her vine.
And thus we leave the blazers coming over,
For our portents are wise, and end at Dover:
And though we use no forward censuring,
Nor send our learned proctors to the king,
Yet every morning when the star doth rise,
There is no black for three hours in our eyes;
But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this light
All eyes turn upward, all are zeal and white:
More it is doubtful that this prodigy
Will turn ten schools to one astronomy:
And the analysis we justly fear,
Since every art doth seek for rescue there;
Physicians, lawyers, glovers on the stall,
The shopkeepers speak mathematics all;
And though men read no gospels in these signes,
Yet all professions are become divines;
All weapons from the bodkin to the pike,
The masons rule and taylors yard alike
Take altitudes, and th’ early fidling knaves
On fluits and hoboyes made them Jacobs-staves;
Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive,
And every fist is made a prospective:
Burton to Gunter cants[67], and Burton hears
From Gunter, and th’ exchange both tongue and ears
By carriage: thus doth mired Guy complain,
His waggon in their letters bears Charles-Wain,
Charles-Wain, to which they say the tayl will reach;
And at this distance they both hear and teach.
Now, for the peace of God and men, advise
(Thou that hast where-withal to make us wise)
Thine own rich studies, and deep Harriots mine[68],
In which there is no dross, but all refine:
O tell us what to trust to, lest we wax
All stiff and stupid with his parallax:
Say, shall the old philosophy be true?
Or doth he ride above the moon, think you?
Is he a meteor forced by the sun?
Or a first body from creation?
Hath the same star been object of the wonder
Of our forefathers? Shall the same come under
The sentence of our nephews? Write and send,
Or else this star a quarrel doth portend.
DR. CORBET’S
JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.
I went from England into France,
Nor yet to learn to cringe nor dance,
Nor yet to ride or fence;
Nor did I go like one of those
That do return with half a nose
They carried from hence.
But I to Paris rode along,
Much like John Dory in the song[69],
Upon a holy tide.
I on an ambling nag did jet,
I trust he is not paid for yet;
And spur’d him on each side.
And to Saint Dennis fast we came,
To see the sights of Nostre Dame,
The man that shews them snaffles:
Where who is apt for to beleeve,
May see our Ladies right-arm sleeve,
And eke her old pantofles;
Her breast, her milk, her very gown
That she did wear in Bethlehem town,
When in the inn she lay.
Yet all the world knows that’s a fable,
For so good clothes ne’re lay in stable
Upon a lock of hay.
No carpenter could by his trade
Gain so much coyn as to have made
A gown of so rich stuff.
Yet they, poor fools, think, for their credit,
They may believe old Joseph did it,
’Cause he deserv’d enough.
There is one of the crosses nails,
Which whoso sees, his bonnet vails,
And if he will, may kneel.
Some say ’twas false, ’twas never so,
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,
It is as true as steel.
There is a lanthorn which the Jews,
When Judas led them forth, did use,
It weighs my weight downright:
But to believe it, you must think
The Jews did put a candle in ’t,
And then ’twas very light.
There’s one saint there hath lost his nose;
Another’s head, but not his toes,
His elbow and his thumb.
But when that we had seen the rags
We went to th’ inn and took our nags,
And so away did come.
We came to Paris on the Seine,
’Tis wondrous fair, ’tis nothing clean,
’Tis Europes greatest town.
How strong it is I need not tell it,
For all the world may easily smell it,
That walk it up and down.
There many strange things are to see,
The Palace and great Gallery,
The Place Royal doth excel:
The New Bridge, and the Statues there,
At Nostre Dame, Saint Q. Pater,
The Steeple bears the bell.
For learning, th’ Universitie;
And for old clothes, the Frippery;
The House the Queen did build.
Saint Innocents, whose earth devours
Dead corps in four and twenty hours,
And there the King was kill’d:
The Bastile and Saint Dennis-street,
The Shafflenist, like London-Fleet,
The Arsenal, no toy.
But if you’ll see the prettiest thing,
Go to the court and see the King,
O ’tis a hopeful boy.
He is of all his dukes and peers
Reverenc’d for much wit at ’s years,
Nor must you think it much;
For he with little switch doth play,
And make fine dirty pyes of clay,
O never king made such!
A bird that can but kill a fly,
Or prate, doth please his majesty,
’Tis known to every one.
The duke of Guise gave him a parret,
And he had twenty cannons for it
For his new galeon.
O that I ere might have the hap
To get the bird which in the map
Is called the Indian Ruck!
I’de give it him, and hope to be
As rich as Guise, or Livine,
Or else I had ill luck.
Birds round about his chamber stand,
And he them feeds with his own hand;
’Tis his humility.
And if they do want any thing,
They need but whistle for their king,
And he comes presently.
But now then, for these parts he must
Be enstiled Lewis the Just[70],
Great Henry’s lawful heir;
When to his stile to add more words,
They’d better call him King of Birds,
Than of the great Navarre.
He hath besides a pretty quirk,
Taught him by Nature, how to work
In iron with much ease.
Sometimes to the forge he goes,
There he knocks, and there he blows,
And makes both locks and keys:
Which puts a doubt in every one,
Whether he be Mars or Vulcan’s son,
Some few believe his mother.
But let them all say what they will,
I came resolv’d, and so think still,
As much the one as th’ other.
The people, too, dislike the youth,
Alledging reasons, for, in truth,
Mothers should honour’d be:
Yet others say, he loves her rather
As well as ere she lov’d his father,
And that’s notoriously.
His queen, a pretty little wench,
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,
She’s nere like to be mother:
For her incestuous house could not
Have children which were not begot
By uncle or by brother.
Now why should Lewis, being so just,
Content himself to take his lust
With his Lucina’s mate;
And suffer his little pretty queen,
From all her race that yet hath been,
So to degenerate?
’Twere charity for to be known
To love others children as his own,
And why? It is no shame;
Unless that he would greater be
Than was his father Henery,
Who, men thought, did the same.