To Celia

DRINK to me, only, with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;

Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine:

But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,

Not so much honouring thee,

As giving it a hope, that there

It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st back to me:

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

Ben Jonson

Gypsy Songs

I

THE faery beam upon you,

The stars to glister on you;

A moon of light

In the noon of night,

Till the fire-drake hath o'ergone you!

The wheel of fortune guide you,

The boy with the bow beside you;

Run ay in the way

Till the bird of day,

And the luckier lot betide you!

II

To the old, long life and treasure!

To the young all health and pleasure!

To the fair, their face

With eternal grace

And the soul to be loved at leisure!

To the witty, all clear mirrors;

To the foolish, their dark errors;

To the loving sprite,

A secure delight;

To the jealous, his own false terrors!

Ben Jonson

Come, My Celia

COME, my celia, let us prove

While we may, the sports of love;

Time will not be ours forever;

He at length our good will sever.

Spend not then his gifts in vain.

Suns that set may rise again;

But if once we lose this light,

'Tis with us perpetual night.

Why should we defer our joys?

Fame and rumor are but toys.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies,

Or his easier ears beguile,

So removed by our wile?

'Tis no sin love's fruit to steal;

But the sweet theft to reveal.

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

Ben Jonson

Clerimont's Song

STILL to be neat, still to be dressed,

As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powdered, still perfumed;

Lady, it is to be presumed,

Though art's hid causes are not found,

All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face

That makes simplicity a grace;

Robes losely flowing, hair as free;

Such sweet neglect more taketh me

Than all th' adulteries of art.

They strike mine eyes but not my heart.

Ben Jonson

Karolin's Song

THOUGH I am young, and cannot tell,

Either what love, or death is well,

Yet I have heard, yet both bear darts,

And both do aim at human hearts:

And then again, I have been told

Love wounds with heat, as death with cold;

So that I fear, they do but bring

Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin, we it call

One thing to be blown up, or fall;

Or to our end, like way may have,

By a flash of lightning, or a wave:

So love's inflamed shaft, or brand,

May kill as soon as death's cold hand;

Except love's fires the virtue have

To fright the frost from out the grave.

Ben Jonson

Hymn to Diana

QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep:

Hesperus entreats thy light,

Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close:

Bless us then with wishèd sight,

Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,

And thy crystal-shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever;

Thou that mak'st a day of night,

Goddess excellently bright.

Ben Jonson

To Penhurst

THOU art not, Penshurst, built to envious show

Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row

Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;

Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,

Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,

And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.

Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,

Of wood, of water: therein thou art fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport;

Thy Mount, to which the dryads do resort,

Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made

Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade;

That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

There in the writhed bark are cut the names

Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames.

And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke

The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady's oak.

Thy copse, too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,

That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer

When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends.

The lower land, that to the river bends,

Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed;

The middle ground thy mares and horses breed.

Each bank doth yield thee coneys; and the tops

Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney's copse,

To crown thy open table, doth provide

The purpled pheasant with the speckled side;

The painted partridge lies in every field,

And, for thy mess, is willing to be killed.

And if the high-swol'n Medway fail thy dish,

Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,

Fat, aged carps, that run into thy net,

And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,

As loath the second draught or cast to stay,

Officiously at first themselves betray;

Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land

Before the fisher, or into his hand.

Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,

Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.

The early cherry, with the later plum,

Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come;

The blushing apricot and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls that every child may reach.

And though thy walls be of the country stone,

They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan;

There's none that dwell about them wish them down;

But all come in, the farmer, and the clown,

And no one empty-handed to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.

some bring a capon, some a rural cake,

Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make

The better cheeses bring'em, or else send

By their ripe daughters whom they would commend

This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear

An emblem of themselves, in plum or pear.

But what can this (more than express their love)

Add to thy free provisions, far above

The need of such whose liberal board doth flow

With all that hospitality doth know!

Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat

Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat;

Where the same beer and bread and self-same wine

That is his lordship's shall be also mine.

And I not fain to sit, as some, this day,

At great men's tables, and yet dine away.

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,

A waiter doth my gluttony envy,

But gives me what I call and lets me eat,

He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat.

Thy tables hoard not up for the next day,

Nor when I take my lodging need I pray

For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there

As if thou, then, wert mine, or I reigned here;

There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

That found King James, when hunting late this way

With his brave son, the Prince, they saw thy fires

Shine bright on every hearth as the desires

Of thy Penates had been set on flame

To entertain them; or the country came,

With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here.

What (great, I will not say, but)sudden cheer

Didst thou then make them! and what praise was heaped

On thy good lady then! who therein reaped

The just reward of her high huswifery;

To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,

When she was far; and not a room but dressed,

As if it had expected such a guest!

These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.

Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.

His children thy great lord may call his own,

A fortune in this age but rarely known.

They are and have been taught religion; thence

Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence.

Each morn and eve they are taught to pray

With the whole household, and may, every day,

Read, in their virtuous parents' noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.

Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee

With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,

May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

Ben Jonson

On My First Son

FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy;

My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy.

Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,

Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.

O, could I lose all father now! For why

Will man lament the state he should envy?

To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,

And, if no other misery, yet age?

Rest in soft peace, and asked, say, "Here doth lie

Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry,

For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such

As what he loves may never like too much."

Ben Jonson

On My First Daughter

HERE lies to each her parents' ruth,

Mary, the daughter of their youth:

Yet, all heaven's gifts, being heaven's due,

It makes the father, less, to rue.

At six months' end, she parted hence

With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul heaven's queen, (whose name she bears)

In comfort of her mother's tears,

Hath placed amongst her virgin train:

Where, while that severed doth remain,

This grave partakes the fleshly birth.

Which cover lightly, gentle earth.

Ben Jonson

Epitaph

On Salathiel Peavy, A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

WEEP with me, all you that read

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed

Death's self is sorry.

'Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive

Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen

When Fates turned cruel,

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been

The stage's jewel;

And did act (what now we moan)

Old men so duly,

As, sooth, the Parcae thought him one,

He played so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

But viewing him since (alas, too late),

They have repented,

And have sought, to give nw birth,

In baths to steep him;

But, being so much too good for earth,

Heaven vows to keep him.

Ben Jonson

Inviting a Friend to Supper

TONIGHT, grave sir, both my poor house and I

Do equally desire your company;

Not that we think us worthy such a guest,

But that your worth will dignify our feast

With those that come, whose grace may make that seem

Something, which else could hope for no esteem.

It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates

The entertainment perfect; not the cates.

Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate,

An olive, capers, or some better salad

Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen,

If we can get her, full of eggs, and then

Lemons and wine for sauce; to these, a coney

Is not to be despaired of, for our money;

And though fowl, now, be scarce, yet there are clerks,

The sky not falling, think we may have larks.

I'll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come:

Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some

May yet be there; and godwit, if we can,

Knat, rail, and ruff, too. Howsoe'er, my man

Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus,

Livy, or of some better book to us,

Of which we'll speak our minds, amidst our meat;

And I'll profess no verses to repeat;

To this, if ought appear which I know not of,

That will the pastry, not my paper, show of.

Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;

But that which most doth take my Muse, and me

Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine,

Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine;

Of which had Horace or Anacreon tasted,

Their lives, as do their lines, till now had lasted.

Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring

Are all but Luther's beer to this I sing.

Of this we shall sup free, but moderately,

And we will have no Pooly, or Parrot by;

Nor shall our cups make any guilty men,

But at our parting we shall be as when

We innocently met. No simple word

That shall be uttered at our mirthful board

Shall make us sad next morning, or affright

The liberty that we'll enjoy tonight.

Ben Jonson

The Hourglass

DO but consider this small dust

Here running in the glass,

  By atoms moved;

Could you believe that this

  The body was

    Of one that loved?

And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,

Turned to cinders by her eye?

Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,

  To have't expressed,

Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

Ben Jonson

My Picture Left in Scotland

I NOW think Love is rather deaf than blind,

   For else it could not be

      That she,

Whom I adore so much, should so slight me

And cast my love behind;

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,

      And every close did meet

   In sentence, of as subtle feet,

         As hath the youngest he,

   That sits in Shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh, but my conscience fears,

      That fly my thoughts between,

      Tell me that she hath seen

   My hundreads of grey hairs,

   Told seven and forty years,

Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace

My mountain belly, and my rocky face,

And all these through her eyes, have stopped her ears.

Ben Jonson

Slow, slow, fresh fount

SLOW, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;

Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:

List to the heavy part the music bears,

Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.

   Droop herbs, and flowers,

   Fall grief in showers,

   Our beauties are not ours:

      O, I could still,

Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,

   Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since nature's pride is, now, a withered daffodil.

Ben Jonson

So breaks the sun

SO breaks the sun earth's rugged chains,

Wherein rude winter bound her veins;

So grows both stream and source of price,

That lately fettered were with ice.

So naked trees get crisped heads,

And colored coats the roughest meads,

And all get vigor, youth, and spright,

That are but looked on by his light.

Ben Jonson

To the Memory of My Beloved, the Author Mr William Shakespeare: And What He Hath Left Us

TO draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name,

Am I thus ample to thy book, and fame:

While I confess thy writings to be such,

As neither man, nor muse, can praise too much.

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways

Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise:

For seeliest ignorance on these may light,

Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance

The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;

Or crafty malice, might pretend this praise,

And think to ruin, where it seemed to raise.

These are, as some infamous bawd, or whore,

Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?

But thou art proof against them, and indeed

Above the ill fortune of them, or the need.

I therefore will begin.

                              Soul of the Age!

The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!

My Shakespeare, rise; I will not lodge thee by

Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie

A little further, to make thee a room:

Thou art a monument, without a tomb,

And art alive still, while thy book doth live,

And we have wits to read, and praise to give.

That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;

I mean with great, but disproportioned muses:

For, if I thought my judgement were of years,

I should commit thee surely with thy peers,

And tell, how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,

Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.

And though thou hadst small Latin, and less Greek,

From thence to honour thee, I would not seek

For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus,

Euripedes, and Sophacles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,

To live again, to hear thy buskin tread,

And shake a stage: or, when thy socks were on,

Leave thee alone, for the comparison

Of all that insolent Greece, or haughty Rome

Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,

To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.

He was not af an age, but for all time!

And all the muses still were in their prime,

When like Apollo he came forth to warm

Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!

Nature herself was proud of his designs,

And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,

As, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.

The merry Greek, tart Aristophones,

Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;

But antiquated, and deserted lie

As they were not of nature's family.

Yet must I not give nature all: thy art,

My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.

For though the poet's matter, nature be,

His art doth give the fashion. And, that he,

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat,

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat

Upon the Muses' anvil: turn the same,

(And himself with it) that he thinks to frame;

Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,

For a good poet's made, as well as born.

And such wert thou. Look how the father's face

Lives in his issue, even so, the race

Of Shakespeare's mind, and manners brightly shines

In his well-turnéd, and true-filéd lines:

In each of which, he seems to shake a lance,

As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet swan of Avon, what a sight it were

To see thee in our waters yet appear,

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,

That so did take Eliza, and our James!

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere

Advanced, and made a constellation there!

Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage,

Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night;

And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

Ben Jonson

The Noble Nature

     IT is not growing like a tree

     In bulk, doth make man better be;

Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear:

          A lily of a day

          Is fairer far in May,

     Although it fall and die that night,--

     It was the plant and flower of Light.

In small proportions we just beauties see;

And in short measures life may perfect be.

Ben Jonson