On Poet-Ape

 

Ben Jonson, 1572 - 1637

Poor Poet-Ape, that would be thought our chief, 
   Whose works are e’en the frippery of wit, 
From brokage is become so bold a thief, 
   As we, the robb’d, leave rage, and pity it. 
At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean, 
   Buy the reversion of old plays;  now grown 
To a little wealth, and credit in the scene, 
   He takes up all, makes each man’s wit his own: 
And, told of this, he slights it.  Tut, such crimes 
   The sluggish gaping auditor devours; 
He marks not whose ‘twas first: and after-times 
   May judge it to be his, as well as ours. 
Fool!  as if half eyes will not know a fleece 
   From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole piece? 

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Epigrams: On my First Son

 

Ben Jonson, 1572 - 1637

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; 
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy. 
Seven years tho’ 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 ‘scap’d world’s and flesh’s rage, 
And if no other misery, yet age? 
Rest in soft peace, and, ask’d, 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. 

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Song to Celia

 

Ben Jonson, 1572 - 1637

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
    And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
    Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove’s Nectar sup,
    I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,
    Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
    It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did’st onely breath,
    And sent’st it back to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,
    Not of it selfe, but thee.

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