Ben Jonson

Gut eats all day and lechers all the night; So all his meat he tasteth over twice; And, striving so to double his delight, He makes himself a thoroughfare of vice. Thus in his belly can he change a sin: Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

Would you believe, when you this monsieur see, That his whole body should speak French, not he? That so much scarf of France, and hat, and feather, And shoe, and tie, and garter should come hether, And land on one whose face durst never be Toward the sea farther than Half-Way Tree? That he, untraveled, should be French so much As Frenchmen in his company should seem Dutch? Or had his father, when he did him get, The French disease, with which he labors yet? Or hung some monsieur’s picture on the wall, By which his dam conceived him, clothes and all? Or is it some French statue? No: ’T doth move, And stoop, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove The new French tailor’s motion, monthly made, Daily to turn in Paul’s, and help the trade.

Come leave the loathéd stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in faction knit Usurp the chair of wit, Indicting and arraigning, every day, Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain Run on, and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn: They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pour’st ’em wheat, And they would acorns eat; ‘Twere simple fury, still thyself to waste On such as have no taste; To offer them a surfeit of pure bread, Whose appetites are dead; No, give them grains their fill, Husks, draff to drink, and swill; If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate’s with the swine. No doubt a moldy tale, Like Pericles, and stale As the shrive’s crusts, and nasty as his fish, Scraps out of every dish Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub, May keep up the Play Club. Broome’s sweepings do as well There as his master’s meal; For who the relish of these guests will fit Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit. And much good do’t ye then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts, and safe in your scene clothes, Dare quit upon your oaths The stagers, and the stage-wrights too (your peers) Of stuffing your large ears With rage of comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks; Which, if they’re torn, and foul, and patched enough, The gamesters share your guilt, and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take th’Alcaic lute; Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon’s lyre; Warm thee by Pindar’s fire; And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat; As curious fools, and envious of thy stain, May, blushing, swear no palsy’s in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy King, His zeal to God, and his just awe of men, They may be blood-shaken, then Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, That no tuned harp like ours, In sound of peace or wars, Shall truly hit the stars When they shall read the acts of Charles his reign, And see his chariot triumph ’bove his wain.

Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps doth die; And this security, It is the common moth That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both. Are all th' Aonian springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings? Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chatt'ring pies defac'd? If hence thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause; 'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baites Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre, Strike in thy proper strain, With Japhet's line aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again; Who aided him will thee, the issue of Jove's brain. And since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page To that strumpet, the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull ass's hoof.

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. O, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundred of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rocky face; And all these through her eyes have stopp'd her ears.

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 cony 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 not know 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 so 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 will sup free, but moderately, And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But, at our parting we will 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.

Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part. Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein thy Love. If thou hadst not Been stern to me, But left me free, I had forgot Myself and thee. For sin's so sweet, As minds ill-bent Rarely repent, Until they meet Their punishment. Who more can crave Than thou hast done? That gav'st a Son, To free a slave, First made of nought; With all since bought. Sin, Death, and Hell His glorious name Quite overcame, Yet I rebel And slight the same. But I'll come in Before my loss Me farther toss, As sure to win Under His cross.

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits True conceit, Spoiling senses of their treasure, Cozening judgment with a measure, But false weight; Wresting words from their true calling, Propping verse for fear of falling To the ground; Jointing syllabes, drowning letters, Fast'ning vowels as with fetters They were bound! Soon as lazy thou wert known, All good poetry hence was flown, And art banish'd. For a thousand years together All Parnassus' green did wither, And wit vanish'd. Pegasus did fly away, At the wells no Muse did stay, But bewail'd So to see the fountain dry, And Apollo's music die, All light failed! Starveling rhymes did fill the stage; Not a poet in an age Worth crowning; Not a work deserving bays, Not a line deserving praise, Pallas frowning; Greek was free from rhyme's infection, Happy Greek by this protection Was not spoiled. Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues, Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs, But rests foiled. Scarce the hill again doth flourish, Scarce the world a wit doth nourish To restore Phoebus to his crown again, And the Muses to their brain, As before. Vulgar languages that want Words and sweetness, and be scant Of true measure, Tyrant rhyme hath so abused, That they long since have refused Other cæsure. He that first invented thee, May his joints tormented be, Cramp'd forever. Still may syllabes jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never. May his sense when it would meet The cold tumor in his feet, Grow unsounder; And his title be long fool, That in rearing such a school Was the founder.

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 seem'd to strive Which own'd the creature. Years he number'd scarce thirteen When fates turn'd cruel, Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he been The stage's jewel; And did act (what now we moan) Old men so duly, As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one, He play'd 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 new birth) In baths to steep him; But being so much too good for earth, Heaven vows to keep him.

Wouldst thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbour give To more virtue than doth live. If at all she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault. One name was Elizabeth, Th' other let it sleep with death: Fitter, where it died to tell, Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.