Ben Jonson

Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years,

See the chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove,

False world, good night! since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits True conceit,

I sing the birth was born tonight, The Author both of life and light; The angels so did sound it,

Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part.

On the happy entrace of Iames, our Soveraigne, to His first high Session of Parliament in this his Kingdome, the 19 of March, 1603. Licet toto nunc Helicone frui. Mart.

To the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison It is not growing like a tree

THE TURN Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year,

Again! Come, give, yield all your strength to me! From far a low word breathes on the breaking brain

I that have been a lover, and could show it, Though not in these, in rhymes not wholly dumb, Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become

Though beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much,

Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know, for whom a tear you shed

Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps doth die;

And must I sing? what subject shall I chuse? Or whose great name in Poets heaven use? For the more countenance to my active Muse?

For love's sake, kiss me once again; I long, and should not beg in vain, Here's none to spy or see;

It is usual for people in this country (out of pretended respect

Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed;

Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever;

Living a whole life has three conditions: absorbing work which demands and brings fulfilment, a group of friends with whom to exchange minds,

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called love, a little boy Almost naked, wanton, blind,

Madame, VVhil'st that, for which all vertue now is sold, And almost every vice, almightie gold,

'Tis growne almost a danger to speake true Of any good minde, now: There are so few. The bad, by number, are so fortified,

On Salathiel Peavy, A Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Weep with me, all you that read This little story;

Wouldst thou hear what man can say In a little? Reader, stay. Underneath this stone doth lie

Weep with me, all you that read This little story; And know for whom a tear you shed,

Not to know vice at all, and keepe true state, Is vertue, and not Fate: Next, to that vertue, is to know vice well,

The trawl of unquiet mind drops astern Great lucid streamers bar the sky ahead (bifurcated banners at a tourney)

Kim, composite of all my loves, less real than most, more real than all; of my making, all the good and

The owl is abroad,the bat and the toad, And so is the cat-a mountain, The ant and the mole sit both in a hole,

I The faery beam upon you, The stars to glister on you;

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of snow

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair,

In the ember days of my last free summer, here I lie, outside myself, watching the gross body eating a poor curry:

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house and I Do equally desire your company; Not that we think us worthy such a guest,

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,

Though I am young, and cannot tell, Either what love, or death is well, Yet I have heard, yet both bear darts,

Walking, snow falling, it is possible to focus at various distances in turn on separate flakes, sharply engage

The decorously informative church Guide to Sex suggested that any urge could well be controlled by playing tennis:

I now think Love is rather deaf than blind, For else it could not be That she,

In all faith, we did our part: generated punctually, prepared adequately, ejected promptly,

Why do we lie 'Why do we lie,' she questioned, her warm eyes on the grey Autumn wind and its coursing,

My son finds occupation in almost nothing, in everything: my soapy penitential toothpaste,

Come, leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age; Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,

Don Surly, to aspire the glorious name Of a great man, and to be thought the same, Makes serious use of all great trade he know.

Epitaphs I Wouldst thou hear what Man can say In a little? Reader, stay.

Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? Th' observing neighbors no such mood can see. Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever,

This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, I thought to form unto my zealous Muse    What kind of creature I could most desire,

Here lies to each her parents' Ruth, Mary, the daughter of their youth: Yet, all heaven's gifts, being heaven's due,

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,

A Child Of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel Weep with me, all you that read This little story;

At court I met it, in clothes brave enough To be a courtier, and looks grave enough To seem a statesman: as I near it came,

He smashed his hand in opening a door for her, and less pain than

Descended to the shore, odd how we left the young girl with us to herself, and went straight to examine the stratified cliffs,

I have no children: But tonight a poem came in which a small child,

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair

So breaks the sun earth's rugged chains, Wherein rude winter bound her veins; So grows both stream and source of price,

Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed:

Come, my Celia, let us prove While we may the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever,

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair

O, that joy so soon should waste! Or so sweet a bliss As a kiss

Follow a shaddow, it still flies you, Seeme to flye it, it will pursue: So court a mistris, she denies you;

Come my Celia, let us prove, While wee may, the sports of love; Time will not be ours, for'ever:

Drink to me, only, with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kisse but in the cup,

From "Cynthia's Revels" Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep,

Why, Disease, dost thou molest Ladies? and of them the best? Do not men, ynow of rites

Follow a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you;

The sickness hot, a master quit, for fear, His house in town, and left one servant there; Ease him corrupted, and gave means to know

Fortune, that favours fools, these two short hours, We wish away, both for your sakes and ours, Judging spectators; and desire, in place,

The fairy beam upon you, The stars to glister on you; A moon of light

High-spirited friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: Your fate hath found

It is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make Man better be; or standing long an oak three hundred year,

My awkward grossness grows: I go down, through I maintain my self in the conviction that I have as much to say as others

The long laments I spent for ruin'd Troy, Are dried; and now mine eyes run teares of joy. No more shall men suppose Electra dead,

GENIUS. Time, Fate, and Fortune have at length conspir'd, To give our Age the day so much desir'd.

if only for ten minutes after the mass feeding of schoolchildren after the careful inanity of the staff

Good and great God, can I not think of thee But it must straight my melancholy be? Is it interpreted in me disease

Good, and great God, can I not think of thee, But it must, straight, my melancholy bee? Is it interpreted in mee disease,

Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse; Whose every work of thy most early wit

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,

It will be looked for, book, when some but see Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me, Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall,

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold:

How blest art thou, canst love the countrey, Wroth, Whether by choyce, or fate, or both! And, though so neere the Citie, and the Court,

The Turn Brave infant of Saguntum, clear Thy coming forth in that great year,

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

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

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

Kisse mee, Sweet: The wary lover Can your favours keepe, and cover, When the common courting jay

A farewell for a Gentlewoman, vertuous and noble False world, good-night, since thou hast brought That houre upon my morne of age,

Camden, most reverend head, to whom I owe All that I am in arts, all that I know (How nothing's that!), to whom my country owes

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind;

Some act of Love's bound to reherse, I thought to bind him, in my verse: Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)