Ben Jonson Poems
A collection of select Ben Jonson famous poems that were written by Ben Jonson or written about the poet by other famous poets. PoetrySoup is a comprehensive educational resource of the greatest poems and poets on history.
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by
Ben Jonson
LXVI. — TO SIR HENRY CARY. That neither fame, nor love might wanting be To greatness, CARY, I sing that and thee ; Whose house, if it no other honor had, In only thee, might be both great and glad : Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time, Durst valor make, almost, but not a crime. Which deed I...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
LIV. — ON CHEVERIL. [II] CHEVERIL cries out my verses libels are ; And threatens the Star-chamber, and the Bar. What are thy petulant pleadings, CHEVERIL, then, That quit'st the cause so oft, and rail'st at men ?...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
E P I G R A M S . LV. — TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 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...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
II. ? TO MY BOOK. It will be look'd for, BOOK, when some but see Thy title, EPIGRAMS, and named of me, Thou shouldst be bold, licentious, full of gall, Wormwood, and sulphur, sharp, and tooth'd withal ; Become a petulent thing, hurl ink, and wit, As madmen stones ; not caring whom they hit. Deceive their malice, who could...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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
That doth but touch his flower and flies away.
Once more, and faith I will be gone;
Can he that loves ask less than one?
Nay, you may err in this
And all your...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
II. — TO PENSHURST. Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told ; Or stair, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile, And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water ; therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport :...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
See the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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 but now discover
Where the winged wag doth hover,
Shall to-night receive a kiss,
How or where herself would wish:
But who brings him to his mother,
Shall have that kiss, and another.
He hath marks about...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
LXI. — TO FOOL, OR KNAVE. Thy praise or dispraise is to me alike ; One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike. ...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
CXVIII. ? ON GUT. GUT eats all day and letchers all the night, So all his meat he tasteth over twice ; And striving so to double his delight, He makes himself a thorough-fare of vice. Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin, Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in. ...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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 so gone 5
Throughout your form as though that move
And draw and conquer all men's love
This subjects you to love of...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
I. — WHY I WRITE NOT OF LOVE. Can poets hope to fetter me ? It is enough, they once did get 5 Mars and my mother, in their net : I wear not these my wings in vain. With which he fled me ; and again, Into my rhymes could ne'er be got By any art : then wonder not, 10 That...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
LXXII. — 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....Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
XLIX. — TO PLAYWRIGHT. PLAYWRIGHT me reads, and still my verses damns, He says I want the tongue of epigrams ; I have no salt, no bawdry he doth mean ; For witty, in his language, is obscene. Playwright, I loath to have thy manners known In my chaste book ; I profess them in thine own....Read more of this...
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Ben Jonson
LXXVIII. — TO HORNET. HORNET, thou hast thy wife drest for the stall, To draw thee custom: but herself gets all....Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
XLVIII. ? 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....Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
XL. ? ON MARGARET RATCLIFFE. M arble, weep, for thou dost cover A dead beauty underneath thee, R ich as nature could bequeath thee : G rant then, no rude hand remove her. A ll the gazers on the skies R ead not in fair heaven's story, E xpresser truth, or truer glory, T han they might in her bright eyes. R are...Read more of this...
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Ben Jonson
III. ? TO MY BOOKSELLER. Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well, Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so too ; I give thee leave : but crave, For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought ; Not offer'd, as it made suit to...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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 with the bow beside you;
Run aye in the way
Till the bird of day,
And the luckier lot betide you.
To the old, long life and treasure,
To the young, all health and pleasure;
To the...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
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 5
To more Virtue than doth live.
If at all she had a fault
Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth
The other let...Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
LVII. — ON BAWDS AND USURERS. If, as their ends, their fruits were so, the same, Bawdry and Usury were one kind of game....Read more of this...
by
Ben Jonson
XVII. ? TO THE LEARNED CRITIC. May others fear, fly, and traduce thy name, As guilty men do magistrates ; glad I, That wish my poems a legitimate fame, Charge them, for crown, to thy sole censure hie. And but a sprig of bays, given by thee, Shall outlive garlands, stol'n from the chaste tree....Read more of this...
by
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 book?
But these, desir'd by you, the maker's ends
Crown with their own. Rare poems ask rare friends.
Yet satires, since the most of mankind be
Their unavoided subject, fewest see;
For none...Read more of this...