Ben Jonson

Pray thee, take care, that tak’st my book in hand, To read it well: that is, to understand.

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 seem'd 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 th' 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 disproportion'd Muses, For if I thought my judgment 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 thund'ring Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles to us; Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead, To life 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. Tri'umph, my Britain, thou hast one to show To whom all scenes of Europe homage owe. He was not of 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 joy'd 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 Aristophanes, 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-turned, and true-filed lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandish'd 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 Advanc'd, 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 mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

The Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year, When the prodigious Hannibal did crown His rage with razing your immortal town. Thou, looking then about, Ere thou wert half got out, Wise child, didst hastily return, And mad’st thy mother’s womb thine urn. How summed a circle didst thou leave mankind Of deepest lore, could we the center find! The Counterturn Did wiser Nature draw thee back From out the horror of that sack, Where shame, faith, honor, and regard of right Lay trampled on; the deeds of death and night Urged, hurried forth, and hurled Upon th’ affrighted world; Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met, And all on utmost ruin set, As, could they but life’s miseries foresee, No doubt all infants would return like thee? The Stand For what is life, if measured by the space, Not by the act? Or maskèd man, if valued by his face Above his fact? Here’s one outlived his peers And told forth fourscore years; He vexèd time and busied the whole state, Troubled both foes and friends; But ever to no ends: What did this stirrer but die late? How well at twenty had he fall’n or stood! For three of his fourscore he did no good. The Turn He entered well, by virtuous parts, Got up and thrived with honest arts; He purchased friends, and fame, and honors then, And had his noble name advanced with men; But weary of that flight He stooped in all men’s sight To sordid flatteries, acts of strife, And sunk in that dead sea of life So deep, as he did then death’s waters sup, But that the cork of title buoyed him up. The Counterturn Alas, but Morison fell young; He never fell, thou fall’st, my tongue. He stood, a soldier to the last right end, A perfect patriot, and a noble friend, But most a virtuous son. All offices were done By him so ample, full, and round, In weight, in measure, number, sound, As, though his age imperfect might appear, His life was of humanity the sphere. The Stand Go now, and tell out days summed up with fears, And make them years; Produce thy mass of miseries on the stage To swell thin age; Repeat of things a throng, To show thou hast been long, Not lived; for life doth her great actions spell By what was done and wrought In season, and so brought To light: her measures are, how well Each syllabe answered, and was formed how fair; These make the lines of life, and that’s her air. The Turn 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 sere: 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. The Counterturn Call, noble Lucius, then for wine, And let thy looks with gladness shine; Accept this garland, plant it on thy head, And think, nay know, thy Morison’s not dead. He leaped the present age, Possessed with holy rage To see that bright eternal day; Of which we priests and poets say Such truths as we expect for happy men, And there he lives with memory, and Ben The Stand Jonson! who sung thus of him, ere he went Himself to rest, Or taste a part of that full joy he meant To have expressed In this bright asterism; Where it were friendship’s schism (Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry) To separate these twi- Lights, the Dioscuri, And keep the one half from his Harry. But fate doth so alternate the design, Whilst that in heaven, this light on earth must shine. The Turn And shine as you exalted are, Two names of friendship, but one star: Of hearts the union. And those not by chance Made, or indenture, or leased out t’advance The profits for a time. No pleasures vain did chime Of rimes, or riots, at your feasts, Orgies of drink, or feigned protests, But simple love of greatness and of good; That knits brave minds and manners more than blood. The Counterturn This made you first to know the why You liked, then after to apply That liking, and approach so one the tother, Till either grew a portion of the other: Each styled by his end The copy of his friend. You lived to be the great surnames And titles by which all made claims Unto the virtue. Nothing perfect done, But as a Cary, or a Morison. The Stand And such a force the fair example had, As they that saw The good, and durst not practice it, were glad That such a law Was left yet to mankind; Where they might read and find Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words; And with the heart, not pen, Of two so early men, Whose lines her rolls were, and recòrds, Who, ere the first down bloomèd on the chin, Had sowed these fruits, and got the harvest in.

That neither fame nor love might wanting be To greatness, Cary, I sing that and thee; Whose house, if it no other honor had, In only thee might be both great and glad; Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time, Durst valor make almost, but not, a crime; Which deed I know not, whether were more high, Or thou more happy, it to justify Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day, Could conquer thee but chance, who did betray. Love thy great loss, which a renown hath won, To live when Broick not stands, nor Ruhr doth run. Love honors, which of best example be When they cost dearest and are done most free; Though every fortitude deserves applause, It may be much or little in the cause. He’s valiant’st that dares fight, and not for pay; That virtuous is, when the reward’s away.

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 writhèd 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 grounds thy mares and horses breed. Each bank doth yield thee conies; 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-swollen 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 them, 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 selfsame wine, This 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. The 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 ’em! and what praise was heaped On thy good lady then, who therein reaped The just reward of her high housewifery; 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 even 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.

Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are Life of the Muses' day, their morning star! If works, not th' author's, their own grace should look, Whose poems would not wish to be your book? But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends. Yet satires, since the most of mankind be Their unavoided subject, fewest see; For none e'er took that pleasure in sin's sense But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence. They, then, that living where the matter is bred, Dare for these poems, yet, both ask and read And like them too, must needfully, though few, Be of the best; and 'mongst those best are you, Lucy, you brightness of our sphere, who are The Muses' evening, as their morning star.

Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse; Whose every work of thy most early wit Came forth example, and remains so yet; Longer a-knowing than most wits do live; And which no affection praise enough can give! To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life, Which might with half mankind maintain a strife. All which I meant to praise, and yet I would; But leave, because I cannot as I should!

Good and great God, can I not think of thee But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease? Oh be thou witness, that the reins dost know And hearts of all, if I be sad for show, And judge me after; if I dare pretend To ought but grace or aim at other end. As thou art all, so be thou all to me, First, midst, and last, converted one, and three; My faith, my hope, my love; and in this state My judge, my witness, and my advocate. Where have I been this while exil'd from thee? And whither rap'd, now thou but stoop'st to me? Dwell, dwell here still. O, being everywhere, How can I doubt to find thee ever here? I know my state, both full of shame and scorn, Conceiv'd in sin, and unto labour borne, Standing with fear, and must with horror fall, And destin'd unto judgment, after all. I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground Upon my flesh t' inflict another wound. Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death With holy Paul, lest it be thought the breath Of discontent; or that these prayers be For weariness of life, not love of thee.

Thy praise or dispraise is to me alike: One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

That poets are far rarer births than kings Your noblest father proved; like whom before, Or then, or since, about our Muses’ springs, Came not that soul exhausted so their store. Hence was it that the destinies decreed (Save that most masculine issue of his brain) No male unto him; who could so exceed Nature, they thought, in all that he would fain. At which she, happily displeased, made you, On whom, if he were living now to look, He should those rare and absolute numbers view, As he would burn or better far his book.