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Best Famous Ben Jonson Poems

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by Ben Jonson | |

His Excuse for Loving

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 loved as old again.
And it is not always face, Clothes, or fortune gives the grace, Or the feature, or the youth; But the language and the truth, With the ardor and the passion, Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you then would hear the story, First, prepare you to be sorry That you never knew till now Either whom to love or how; But be glad as soon with me When you hear that this is she Of whose beauty it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keep the middle age at stay, And let nothing hide decay, Till she be the reason why All the world for love may die.

by Ben Jonson | |

The Hourglass

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 fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye:
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have it expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Celia

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.

by Algernon Charles Swinburne | |

Ben Jonson

 Broad-based, broad-fronted, bounteous, multiform,
With many a valley impleached with ivy and vine,
Wherein the springs of all the streams run wine,
And many a crag full-faced against the storm,
The mountain where thy Muse's feet made warm
Those lawns that reveled with her dance divine
Shines yet with fire as it was wont to shine
From tossing torches round the dance aswarm.
Nor less, high-stationed on the gray grave heights, High-thoughted seers with heaven's heart-kindling lights Hold converse; and the herd of meaner things Knows or by fiery scourge or fiery shaft When wrath on thy broad brows has risen, and laughed, Darkening thy soul with shadow of thunderous wings.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Thomas Earl of Suffolk


Since men have left to do praiseworthy things,
Most think all praises flatteries :  but truth brings
That sound and that authority with her name,
As, to be raised by her, is only fame.
Stand high, then, HOWARD, high in eyes of men,
High in thy blood, thy place ; but highest then,
When, in men's wishes, so thy virtues wrought,
As all thy honors were by them first sought :
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good man's heart :
Which, by no less confirmed, than thy king's choice,
Proves that is God's, which was the people's voice.

by Ben Jonson | |

Of Life and Death

The ports of death are sins ; of life, good deeds ;
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilful blind is he, then, that would stray,
And hath it, in his powers, to make his way !
This world death's region is, the other life's ;
And here, it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it :
For good men but see death, the wicked taste it.

by Ben Jonson | |

To King James

Who would not be thy subject, JAMES, t'obey
A prince that rules by' example, more than sway ?
Whose manners draw, more than thy powers constrain.
And in this short time of thy happiest reign,
Hast purg'd thy realms, as we have now no cause
Left us of fear, but first our crimes, then laws.
Like aids 'gainst treasons who hath found before,
And than in them, how could we know God more ?
First thou preserved wert our king to be,
And since, the whole land was preserv'd for thee.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Francis Beaumont

 E  P  I  G  R  A  M  S .

How I do love thee, BEAUMONT, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use !
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth !
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st ;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st !
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves ?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives ?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Mungril Esquire

His bought arms MUNG not liked ; for his first day
Of bearing them in field, he threw 'em away :
And hath no honor lost, our duellists say.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Banks the Usurer

BANKS feel no lameness in his knotty gout,
His monies travel for him in and out.
And though the soundest legs go every day,
He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.

by Ben Jonson | |

On a Robbery

RIDWAY robb'd DUNCOTE of three hundred pound,
    Ridway was ta'en, arraign'd, condemn'd to die ;
But, for this money, was a courtier found,
    Begg'd Ridway's pardon :  Duncote now doth cry,
Robb'd both of money, and the law's relief,
    ? The courtier is become the greater thief.

by Ben Jonson | |

To One that Desired Me Not to Name Him

Be safe, nor fear thyself so good a fame,
That, any way, my book should speak thy name :
For, if thou shame, rank’d with my friends, to go,
I am more ashamed to have thee thought my foe.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Court Parrot


To pluck down mine, POLL sets up new wits still;
Still 'tis his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

by Ben Jonson | by Ben Jonson. You can read it on' st_url='' st_title='Song. That Women Are But Men's Shadows'>|

Song. That Women Are But Men's Shadows



    Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,                     5
Styl'd but the shadows of us men ?
At morn and even shades are longest ;
    At noon they are or short, or none :
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
    But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styl'd but the shadows of us men ?

    Seem to fly it, it will pursue :
So court a mistress, she denies you ;
    Let her alone, she will court you.
Say are not women truly, then,                     5
Styl'd but the shadows of us men ?
At morn and even shades are longest ;
    At noon they are or short, or none :
So men at weakest, they are strongest,
    But grant us perfect, they're not known.
Say, are not women truly, then,
Styl'd but the shadows of us men ?

by Ben Jonson | |

To William Roe


When nature bids us leave to live, 'tis late
Then to begin, my ROE!  He makes a state
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true causes, ere they grow to old.
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;
Each best day of our life escapes us, first:
Then, since we, more than many, these truths know;
Though life be short, let us not make it so.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Fool, or Knave


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

by Ben Jonson | |

To Sir Cod

Leave, COD, tobacco-like, burnt gums to take,
Or fumy clysters, thy moist lungs to bake :
Arsenic would thee fit for society make.

by Ben Jonson | |

On Spies

SPIES, you are lights in state, but of base stuff,
Who, when you've burnt yourselves down to the snuff,
Stink, and are thrown away.
End fair enough.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Sir Luckless Woo-All

Is this the sir, who, some waste wife to win,
A knight-hood bought, to go a wooing in?
'Tis LUCKLESS, he that took up one on band
To pay at's day of marriage.
By my hand
The knight-wright's cheated then !  he'll never pay :
Yes, now he wears his knighthood every day.

by Ben Jonson | |

To my Muse


Away, and leave me, thou thing most abhorr'd
That hast betray'd me to a worthless lord ;
Made me commit most fierce idolatry
To a great image through thy luxury :
Be thy next master's more unlucky muse,
And, as thou'st mine, his hours and youth abuse,
Get him the time's long grudge, the court's ill will ;
And reconcil'd, keep him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends ; and, which is worse,
Almost all ways to any better course.
With me thou leav'st an happier muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome poverty :
She shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me : stay — Whoe'er is raised,
For worth he has not, he is tax'd not praised.

by Ben Jonson | |

On My First Daughter

On My First Daughter
by Ben Jonson

Here lies, to each her parents' ruth,
Mary, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.

At six months' end, she parted hence
With safety of her innocence;
Whose soul heaven's queen, whose name she bears,
In comfort of her mother's tears,
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train:
Where, while that severed doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

by Ben Jonson | |

On Bawds and Usurers


If, as their ends, their fruits were so, the same,
Bawdry and Usury were one kind of game.

by Ben Jonson | |

An Epitaph on S [alathiel] P [avy]

An Epitaph on S [alathiel] P [avy], a child
of Q
[ueen] El [izabeth's] Chapel
by Ben Jonson

by Ben Jonson | |

To the Ghost of Martial

Martial, thou gav'st far nobler epigrams
To thy DOMITIAN, than I can my JAMES :
But in my royal subject I pass thee,
Thou flatter'dst thine, mine cannot flatter'd be.

by Ben Jonson | |

To Courtling


I grieve not, COURTLING, thou art started up
A chamber-critic, and doth dine, and sup
At madam's table, where thou mak'st all wit
Go high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'Tis not thy judgment breeds thy prejudice,
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.