A REPLY IN THE DEFENCE OF OXFORD PETITION, WITH A DECLARATION of the academians' tears for the decay of LEARNING, OR, The universities fears: ALSO THE DESCRIPTION OF A Reverend Coachman which preached before a company of Brownists. BY THO. HERBERT. London Printed, 1641. Academians' tears, OR, THE UNIVERSITIES fears for the decay of LEARNING. LIke to the Swan or Augur of the Spring, In depth of woe thus I your sorrow sing Learned academians', eyes dimmed with tears, The diapason of my sorrow bears: I grieve, and for my grief am checked by those Who seem well learned, yet are learning's foes. Wise they do seem to be, but yet are fools For loving wisdom, and yet hate the schools Wherein the nutriment of wisdom dwells, What! Is it wisdom for to seek new hells In an eternal theme of bliss? is't fit To approve nonsense to be real wit? How shall the Eunuch Scripture understand, If Philip not ascend the Chariot, and Instruct? how shall dark sentences be made Clear as the Sun, when Masters of each trade Will be interpreters? Can Lands be free From heresies, where all will Preachers be? O surely no, where ignorance doth reign, Wisdom to visit that coast will disdain; When all shall teach, who will be learners then? Sure brutish beasts must act the parts of men, They must the audience be, and learn as much As those which do at learned fountain grudge. The Universities I mean, who have Too much they say, and yet do daily crave: Suppose that some do avarice affect, Do therefore all? suppose that some neglect The feeding of their flocks, all don't do so, Why should then any seek all to overthrow? Some Bishops have done ill (as heretofore I have declared) let them then pay the score They owe to death, let not such servants frown Have power to cast a faithful Prelate down, Though jure divino Bishops must not be, Yet from derision they ought to live free, Which have not tainted been, such sordid slave (Whose baseness my sharp pen shall strike to's Ought not to rail at them, which cannot tell (grave) How they have lived, whether bad or well. Ironmongers, glover's, and each cobbler's wit Is bent to shoot, what is the mark they hit But only Bishops? Lord Bishops they must fall, The reason why? they are turned Papists all. They love the Pope, and therefore they must down, The mitre never shall o'er top the crown: God forbid that it should, O first let all Which think but such a thought, by justice fall. Let them be kept from the bright shining Sun, I love Minerva, but Medusa shun. Let virtue flourish, and let right take place, But those confounded be, which vice embrace. Yet give me leave once more for to revie Minerva's torment, Oxford's misery. Oxford Petition being dedicated To the Parliament, was printed, hated, Abused, and reviled by each factious tongue, Answered with envious lines, which stung The very hearts of well affected men, Who said, what would become of learning, when Each libeler durst scandalize it, none Being called in question for't; but yet did pray, Scholars would patient be, until a day (Being consecrated by the Parliament) Should come, wherein bad minded men's intent should hindered be, scandalous Libels stopped, The authors being hanged, or their ears cropped. This cordial did give some ease, but still, They are abused by Brownists words and quill, Some of whose actions to you I'll descry, But first view academians' misery. Which thus begins. Once Oxford's merits were accounted great, Our learning reverenced, but now are beat To'th ground by each illiterate pen, Being termed no better than Rome's serving men. Like doleful mourners we are forced to walk, Finding no fitter theme on which to talk Then our misfortune, which is England's hate, But yet are ignorant from whence our fate proceeds, some say from envy it doth come, Others because we much affected Rome, By loving Canterbury, whose sad tears We do present you, being writ in our fears. Canterbury his tears. Countrymen hear him which hath done you wrong, Regard my tears, being Progn's sisters song. A clothier's Son I was, in Redding borne, But now Archbishop, and each Vassals scorn; And well I do deserve it, because I Delighted in nought but your misery. I aimed at that which equity forbid, Still cogitating, that my plots lay hid; I spurned at virtue, but did vice embrace, I ne'er did dream of justice, of disgrace, Which would ensue my crimes, I still did think, I was too high at sorrow's font to drink: But ah me wretch! my deeds are now well known, Boreastick blasts my deeds have abroad blown, In each place Zephyrus not suffered is With his mild gales to blow, envy doth hiss At her chief Patron, for I termed was so, Which now doth heap upon me fatal woe: Each Poet doth the Muses nine invite, To aid his pen satiric strain to write Against poor Canterbury, there are none, Which in the least degree will me bemoan: For if they should, I know the Commons hate Would heap on them my dismal, mournful fate. My Flock I fed not, no more will they me, With aught but new invented misery. Nor can I blame them for their deserved hate, 'Cause I did first make them unfortunate. I caused their grief, and why should they not mine: It is not fit the Presser should the Vine Cut down, for being good and wholesome fruit, Nor was it fit, those I could not confute, For to confound, but now alas, 'tis past, Wherefore those few days I enjoy the waste, In echoing forth lamentation For their falls, and England's vexation. O what is man? why nothing. It were well If he were so, then wide gaping hell Had nought to do him; if nothing, than Nothing could torment him, but when 'Tis plainly proved, essence he hath from Jove, Bestowed on him, only for the great love Which he did bear to him, if he abuse That free-will-offering, and do quite refuse To be obsequious to his God's command, Kick at his salutes, and proudly withstand His maker's ediots, than woe be to him, He must be sure in brinish floods to swim, Or burn eternally i'th' infernal Lake, Which but to name, each artery shake, My limbs do tremble, horror me afflicts, Conscience accusing me of my vain tricks, My corpse, death fear not, 'tis the gem within, Whose death I fear, deprived by my foul sin. Pray for me countrymen, let curses cease, Lest that you hinder my souls future peace. Oxford's Answer. Pray you for him, and us, but we for all, Especially that learning ne'er may fall. Finis. Of a reverend Coachman which preached before a company of Separatists. AN honest Gentleman of the Inns of Court, Amongst the Brownists meaning to resort: His hair he cropped, and with a brother's pace, With turned up eyes, he went to seek the place Of their abode, at length he it doth find, And coming in salutes a sister kind. Sister quoth he, who is't doth teach this day, Insooth I know not brother she did say; Last Sabbath day did teach a worthy man, Whom once again I'll hear if that I can. What was his name said he, she could not tell, Her only plea was, he taught very well; A worthy man he was, a Coachman too, He thought it strange a Coachman so should do. The author's answer. A Coachman, and a Preacher, O 'tis strange, What meant these idiots for to exchange Levi for Benjamin? What did they skip From doing evil by his Coach-horse whip. I do conceit a whip would have been fit Laid on their backs t'have taught them better wit. If Coachmen turn Divines, poor scholars take Their office, perhaps in time they'll make You chaplains to them, serve the Hall table, And afterwards they'll make you able, To minister the Sacrament, but oh! I quake to tell it, too many have done so. When I perceive Ironmongers, Walkers are In God's own Tabernacle, and do not fear His thundering rage (although they know full well) For peeping in the Ark, how many fell. My eyes I can't abstain from springing tears, Lest truth should cease, I'm filled with 1000 fears. But yet I'll pray such things may be altered, Or those which are upholders of them haltered. Coachman, get up thy Box, Audience return, Lest the same place do prove your fatal Urn. FINIS.