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Brief Lives, Vol. 2

Chapter 120: John Overall (1560-1619).
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About This Book

A collection of concise biographical sketches of contemporaries and earlier figures recorded by an antiquarian observer, combining factual entries—births, offices, publications, and inscriptions—with personal anecdotes, hearsay, heraldic and parish-register notes, bibliographic references, and occasional critical judgments. Entries range from terse records to extended reminiscences, often citing documentary sources or witness statements, and reflect an informal, detail-driven approach aimed at preserving lives, reputations, and local traditions for reference and remembrance.


John Overall (1560-1619).

[495]Dr. Overall and his wife:—

Dr. <John> Overall was deane of St. Paules, London.

I see his picture in[496] the rationale writt by <Anthony> Sparrow, bishop of Exon, in the beginning wherof are the effigies[497] of L<ancelot> Andrews, bishop of Winton, Mr. <Richard> Hooker, and John Overall, bishop of Norwich—before which is writt Ecclesiae et Liturgiae Anglicanae vindices. Quaere if this deane was that bishop.

I know not what he wrote or whether he was any more than a common-prayer Doctor; but most remarqueable by his wife, who was the greatest beautie in her time in England. That she was so I have it attested from the famous limmer[498] Mr. <John> Hoskins[499] and other old painters, besides old courtiers. She was not more beautifull than she was obligeing and kind, and was so tender-hearted that (truly) she could scarce denie any one. She had (they told me) the loveliest eies that ever were seen, but wondrous wanton. When she came to court or to the playhouse, the gallants would so flock round her. Richard, the earle of Dorset, and his brother Edward, since earle, both did mightily adore her. And by their report he must have had a hard heart that did not admire her. Bishop Hall sayeth in his Meditations that 'there is none so old that a beautifull person loves not; nor so young whom a lovely feature moves not.'

The good old deane, notwithstanding he knew well enough that he was horned, loved her infinitely: in so much that he was willing she should enjoy what she had a mind to.

Among others who were charmed by her was Sir John Selby of Yorkshire. 1656, old Mris Tyndale (of the Priory near Easton-piers), who knew her, remembres a song made of her and Sir John, part whereof was this, vizt.:—

The deane of Paule's did search for his wife,
And where d'ee thinke he found her?...[500]

etc.

On these two lovers was made this following copie of pastorall verses (vide the ballad-booke in Museo Sheldoniano[501]), e.g.

[502]Downe lay the shepherd swaine
So sober and demure,
Wishing for his wench againe[503]
So bonny and so pure,
With his head on hillock lowe
And his armes akimboe,
And all was for the losse of his
Hye nonny nonny noe.
His teares fell as thinne
As water from the still,
His haire upon his chinne
Grew like thyme upon a hill,
His cherry cheekes[504] pale as snowe
Did testifye his mickle woe,
And all was for the losse of his
Hye nonny nonny noe.
Sweet she was, as kind a love
As ever fetter'd swayne;
Never such a daynty one
Shall man enjoy again.
Sett a thousand on a rowe
I forbid that any showe
Ever the like of her
Hey nonny nonny noe.
Face she had of filberd hue,
And bosom'd[505] like a swan;
Back she had of bended ewe,
And wasted by a span.
Haire she had as black as crowe
From the head unto the toe
Downe, downe, all over her
Hye nonny nonny noe.
With her mantle tuck't-up high
She foddered her flock
So bucksome and alluringly,
Her knee upheld her smock.
So nimbly did she use to goe,
So smooth she danc't on tip-toe,
That all men were fond of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.
[506]She smiled like a Holy-day
And simpred like the Spring,
She pranck't it like a popingaie
And like a swallow sing,
She trip't it like a barren doe,
She strutted like a gor-crowe,
Which made the men so fond of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.
To sport it on the merry downe
To daunce the lively Haye
To wrastle for a green gowne
In heate of all the daye
Never would she say me no
Yet me thought I had thô
Never enough of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.
But gonne she is, the prettiest[507] lasse
That ever trod on plaine.
What ever hath betide of her
Blame not the shepherd swayne
For why? she was her owne foe
And gave her selfe the overthrowe
By being so franke of her
Hye nonny nonny noe.

Finis.