Ben Jonson

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

Beauties, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind; Cruel now, and then as kind? If he be amongst ye, say? He is Venus’ runaway. She that will

Come, leave the loathed 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

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

For love’s sake, kiss me once again; I long, and should not beg in vain, Here’s none to spy or see; Why do you doubt or stay? I’ll taste as lightly as the bee

HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor’sives to your wound: Your fate hath found A gentler and more agile hand to tend The cure of that which is but corporal; And doubtful days,

A Vienna ci sono dieci ragazze, Una spalla dove piange la morte E un bosco di colombe disseccate. C’e’ un frammento del mattino Nel museo della brina. C’è un salone con mille vetrate. Ahi!

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

A child of Queen Elizabeth’s Chapel Epitaphs: ii 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

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

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

STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder’d, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art’s hid causes are not found,

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

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,

THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet ’tis your Virtue now I raise. A virtue, like allay

The fairy 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

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

Epitaphs i 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

Let it not your wonder move, Less your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fifty years, I have had, and have, my peers; Poets, though divine, are men, Some have lov’d as