To his bandstrings tied,
Was not this a pretty thing?
The ring, without doubt,
Was the thing put him out,
And made him forget what was next;
For every one there
Will say, I dare swear,
He handled it more than his text.
With poetical badinage of this complexion the wits of the University of Oxford, with Corbet at their head, “who loved this boy’s play to the last,” abounded. While many of the pasquinades are lost, many, however, are still preserved among Ashmole’s papers: on most occasions Corbet was at least a match for his opponents, but this misfortune of the ring became a standing jest against him: it is alluded to at [page 233]; and it is demanded in another poem[16], if
He would provoke court wits to sing