Ben Jonson Short Poems
Famous Short Ben Jonson Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Ben Jonson. A collection of the all-time best Ben Jonson short poems
by
Ben Jonson
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
IX. ? TO ALL TO WHOM I WRITE. May none whose scatter'd names honor my book, For strict degrees of rank or title look : 'Tis 'gainst the manners of an epigram ; And I a poet here, no herald am.
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.
by
Robert Herrick
When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me,
When I, thy Herrick,
Honouring thee, on my knee
Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee,
And a new altar,
And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
Writ in my psalter.
by
Robert Herrick
Ah Ben!
Say how or when
Shall we, thy guests,
Meet at those lyric feasts,
Made at the Sun,
The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had,
As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!
Or come again,
Or send to us
Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet
Wisely to husband it,
Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end
That precious stock,--the store
Of such a wit the world should have no more.
by
Ben Jonson
LXXX. ? 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
XXXIV. ? OF DEATH. He that fears death, or mourns it, in the just, Shews of the Resurrection little trust.
by
Ben Jonson
FOLLOW a shadow it still flies you;
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
Styled 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. 10
Say are not women truly then
Styled but the shadows of us men?
by
Ben Jonson
XV. ? ON COURT-WORM. All men are worms ; but this no man. In silk 'Twas brought to court first wrapt, and white as milk ; Where, afterwards, it grew a butterfly, Which was a caterpillar : so 'twill die.
by
Ben Jonson
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,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free;
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th' adulteries of art:
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
by
Ben Jonson
Follow a shadow, it still flies you;
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
Styled 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
Styled but the shadows of us men?
by
Ben Jonson
X. ? TO MY LORD IGNORANT. Thou call'st me POET, as a term of shame ; But I have my revenge made, in thy name.
by
Ben Jonson
An Epitaph on S [alathiel] P [avy], a child of Q [ueen] El [izabeth's] Chapel by Ben Jonson
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.
by
Ben Jonson
LIX. — TO FOOL, OR KNAVE. 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
LXXV. — ON LIPPE THE TEACHER. I cannot think there's that antipathy 'Twixt puritans and players, as some cry; Though LIPPE, at Paul's, ran from his text away, To inveigh 'gainst plays, what did he then but play?
by
Ben Jonson
VIII. ? 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
LVIII. ? TO GROOM IDIOT. IDIOT, last night, I pray'd thee but forbear To read my verses ; now I must to hear : For offering with thy smiles my wit to grace, Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place. And so my sharpness thou no less disjoints, Than thou didst late my sense, losing my points. So have I seen, at Christmas-sports, one lost, And hood-wink'd, for a man embrace a post.
by
Ben Jonson
XIII. ? TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC. When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Æsculape : Let me give too, that doubly am got free ; From my disease's danger, and from thee. [ AJ Notes: l.3 Too, two. ]
by
Ben Jonson
XLIV. ? ON CHUFFE, BANKS THE USURER'S KINSMAN. CHUFFE, lately rich in name, in chattels, goods, And rich in issue to inherit all, Ere blacks were bought for his own funeral, Saw all his race approach the blacker floods : He meant they thither should make swift repair, When he made him executor, might be heir.
by
Ben Jonson
V. ? ON THE UNION. When was there contract better driven by fate, Or celebrated with more truth of state ? The world the temple was, the priest a king, The spoused pair two realms, the sea the ring.
by
Ben Jonson
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 most wits do live;
And which no affection praise enough can give!
To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.
All which I meant to praise, and yet I would;
But leave, because I cannot as I should!
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.
by
Ben Jonson
LXXI. — 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
XLI. ? ON GIPSY. GIPSY, new bawd, is turn'd physician, And gets more gold than all the College can : Such her quaint practice is, so it allures, For what she gave, a whore ; a bawd, she cures.