THE LADY HADDINGTON
Was first wife of John Ramsey, viscount Haddington in Scotland, and daughter of Robert Radcliffe, earl of Sussex. Her marriage was celebrated by Ben Jonson, in a masque presented at court on the Shrove-Tuesday at night (1608)[72]; and here is her monody by Corbet.
She had two sons, Charles and James, and a daughter, Elizabeth, who all died young. Her father died without surviving issue, September 22d, 1629.
Her husband, who was a great favourite with king James, survived her, and was created baron of Kingston upon Thames, and earl of Holderness, 22 Jan. 1620-1. He had a second wife, daughter of sir William Cockayne, alderman of London[73]:
But his first lady, the subject of the present article, was evidently dead before his elevation to the English peerage.
AN ELEGIE
UPON THE DEATH OF
THE LADY HADDINGTON,
WHO DYED OF THE SMALL POX.
Deare losse, to tell the world I greive were true,
But that were to lament my selfe, not you;
That were to cry out helpe for my affaires,
For which nor publick thought, nor private, cares:
No, when thy fate I publish amongst men,
I should have power, and write with the States pen:
I should in naming thee force publicke teares,
And bid their eyes pay ransome for their cares.
First, thy whole life was a short feast of witt,
And Death th’ attendant which did waite on it:
To both mankind doth owe devotion ample,
To that their first, to this their last example.
And though ’twere praise enough (with them whose fame
And vertue’s nothing but an ample name)
That thou wert highly borne, (which no man doubtes)
And so mightst swath base deedes in noble cloutes;
Yet thou thy selfe in titles didst not shroud,
And being noble, wast nor foole, nor proud;
And when thy youth was ripe, when now the suite
Of all the longing court was for thy fruit,
How wisely didst thou choose! Foure blessed eyes,
The kings and thine, had taught thee to be wise.
Did not the best of men thee virgin give
Into his handes, by which himselfe did live?
Nor didst thou two yeares after talke of force,
Or, lady-like, make suit for a divorce:
Who, when their owne wilde lust is falsely spent,
Cry out, “My lord, my lord is impotent.”
Nor hast thou in his nuptiall armes enjoy’d
Barren imbraces, but wert girl’d and boy’d:
Twice-pretty-ones thrice worthier were their youth
Might shee but bring them up, that brought them forth:
Shee would have taught them by a thousand straines,
(Her bloud runns in their manners, not their veines)
That glory is a lye; state a grave sport;
And country sicknesse above health at court.
Oh what a want of her loose gallants have,
Since shee hath chang’d her window for a grave;
From whence shee us’d to dart out witt so fast,
And stick them in their coaches as they past!
Who now shall make well-colour’d vice looke pale?
Or a curl’d meteor with her eyes exhale,
And talke him into nothing? Who shall dare
Tell barren braines they dwell in fertill haire?
Who now shall keepe ould countesses in awe,
And, by tart similyes, repentance draw
From those, whome preachers had given ore? Even such
Whome sermons could not reach, her arrowes touch.
Hereafter, fooles shall prosper with applause,
And wise men smile, and no man aske the cause:
Hee of fourescore, three night capps, and two haires,
Shall marry her of twenty, and get heyres
Which shall be thought his owne; and none shall say
But tis a wondrous blessing, and he may.
Now (which is more then pitty) many a knight,
Which can doe more then quarrell, less then fight,
Shall choose his weapons, ground; draw seconds thither,
Put up his sword, and not be laught at neyther.
Oh thou deform’d unwoeman-like disease,
That plowst up flesh and bloud, and there sow’st pease,
And leav’st such printes on beauty, that dost come
As clouted shon do on a floore of lome;
Thou that of faces hony-combes dost make,
And of two breasts two cullenders, forsake
Thy deadly trade; thou now art rich, give ore,
And let our curses call thee forth no more.
Or, if thou needs will magnify thy power,
Goe where thou art invoked every houre
Amongst the gamsters, where they name thee thicke
At the last maine, or the last pocky nicke.
Get thee a lodging neare thy clyent, dice,
There thou shalt practice on more then one vice.
There’s wherewithall to entertaine the pox,
There’s more then reason, there’s rime for ’t, the box.
Thou who hast such superfluous store of game,
Why struckst thou one whose ruine is thy shame?
O, thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist;
And, where thy shaft was needfull, there it mist.
Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face,
Where thy ill-favour’d kindnesse might adde grace,
That men might say, How beauteous once was shee!
Or, What a peece, ere shee was seaz’d by thee!
Thou shouldst have wrought on some such ladyes mould
That ne’re did love her lord, nor ever could
Untill shee were deform’d, thy tyranny
Were then within the rules of charity.
But upon one whose beauty was above
All sort of art, whose love was more then love,
On her to fix thy ugly counterfett,
Was to erect a pyramide of jett,
And put out fire to digg a turfe from hell,
And place it where a gentle soule should dwell:
A soule which in the body would not stay,
When twas noe more a body, nor good clay,
But a huge ulcer. O thou heav’nly race,
Thou soule that shunn’st th’ infection of thy case,
Thy house, thy prison, pure soule, spotless, faire,
Rest where no heat, no cold, no compounds are!
Rest in that country, and injoy that ease,
Which thy frayle flesh deny’de, and her disease!
ON THE
CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY.
The failure of success in the representation of this play has been detailed in the Life of the Bishop: indeed it seems to have subjected the Oxonians to much ridicule, which the elegant bishop King[74] joined with Corbet in retorting. One of the numerous banters on this occasion is recorded by Wood, and deserves to be preserved:
“At Christ-Church ‘Marriage,’ done before the king,
Lest that those mates should want an offering,
The king himself did offer—What? I pray.
He offer’d twice or thrice to go away.”
ON
CHRIST-CHURCH PLAY
AT WOODSTOCK.
If wee, at Woodstock, have not pleased those,
Whose clamorous judgments lye in urging noes,
And, for the want of whifflers, have destroy’d
Th’ applause, which wee with vizards hadd enjoy’d,
Wee are not sorry; for such witts as these
Libell our windowes oft’ner then our playes;
Or, if their patience be moov’d, whose lipps
Deserve the knowledge of the proctorships,
Or judge by houses, as their howses goe,
Not caring if their cause be good or noe;
Nor by desert or fortune can be drawne
To credit us, for feare they loose their pawne;
Wee are not greatly sorry; but if any,
Free from the yoake of the ingaged many,
That dare speake truth even when their head stands by,
Or when the seniors spoone is in the pye;
Nor to commend the worthy will forbeare,
Though he of Cambridge, or of Christ-church were,
And not of his owne colledge; and will shame
To wrong the person, for his howse, or name;
If any such be greiv’d, then downe proud spirit;
If not, know, number never conquer’d merit.