Be N Jonson
¶[1573- 1637]
150 Simplex Munditiis
¶STILL to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powdr'd, 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 faceThat makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh meThan all th' adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
757 the Triumph
¶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 dutyUnto her beauty;And enamour'd do wish, so they mightBut enjoy such a sight,That they still were to run by her side,Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
¶Do but look on her eyes, they do lightAll that Love's world compriseth!Do but look on her hair, it is brightAs Love's star when it riseth!Do but mark, her forehead's smootherThan words that soothe her;And from her arch'd brows such a graceSheds itself through the face,As alone there triumphs to the lifeAll the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.[291]Have you seen but a bright lily growBefore rude hands have touch'd it?Have you mark'd but the fall of the snowBefore the soil hath smutch'd it?Have you felt the wool of beaver,Or swan's down ever?Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier,Or the nard in the fire?Or have tasted the bag of the bee?O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
752 the Noble Nature
¶IT is not growing like a treeIn bulk, doth make Man better be;Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:A lily of a dayIs fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night—It was the plant and flower of LightIn small proportions we just beauties see;And in short measures life may perfect be.
15$ To CELIA
¶DRINK to me only with thine eyes,And I will pledge with mine;Or leave a kiss but in the cupAnd I'll not look for wine.The thirst that from the soul doth riseDoth ask a drink divine;But might I of Jove's nectar sup,I would not change for thine.
¶I sent thee late a rosy wreath,Not so much honouring theeAs giving it a hope that thereIt could not wither'd be;But thou thereon didst only breatheAnd sent'st it back to me;[292]Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,Not of itself but thee!
A Farewell to the World
¶FALSE world, good night! since thou hast broughtThat hour upon my morn of age;Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,My part is ended on thy stage.
¶Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fearAs little as I hope from thee:I know thou canst not show nor bearMore hatred than thou hast to me.
¶My tender, first, and simple yearsThou didst abuse and then betray;Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,When all the causes were away.
¶Then in a soil hast planted meWhere breathe the basest of thy fools;Where envious arts professed be,And pride and ignorance the schools;
¶Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed;Where every freedom is betray'd,And every goodness tax'd or grieved.
¶But what we're born for, we must bear:Our frail condition it is suchThat what to all may happen here,If't chance to me, I must not grutch.
¶Else I my state should much mistakeTo harbour a divided thoughtFrom all my kind—that, for my sake,There should a miracle be wrought.[293]No, I do know that I was bornTo age, misfortune, sickness, grief:But I will bear these with that scornAs shall not need thy false relief.Nor for my peace will I go far,As wanderers do, that still do roam;But make my strengths, such as they are,Here in my bosom, and at home.
A Nymph's Passion
¶I LOVE, and he loves me again,Yet dare I not tell who;For if the nymphs should know my swain,I fear they'd love him too;Yet if he be not known,The pleasure is as good as none,For that's a narrow joy is but our own.
¶I'll tell, that if they be not glad,They may not envy me;But then if I grow jealous madAnd of them pitied be,It were a plague 'bove scorn;And yet it cannot be forborneUnless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.
¶He is, if they can find him, fairAnd fresh, and fragrant too,As summer's sky or purged air,And looks as lilies doThat are this morning blown:Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,And fear much more that more of him be shown.
¶But he hath eyes so round and bright,As make away my doubt,Where Love may all his torches light,Though Hate had put them out;But then t' increase my fearsWhat nymph soe'er his voice but hearsWill be my rival, though she have but ears.[294]I'll tell no more, and yet I love,And he loves me; yet noOne unbecoming thought doth moveFrom either heart I know:But so exempt from blameAs it would be to each a fame,If love or fear would let me tell his name.
Epode
¶NOT to know vice at all, and keep true state,Is virtue, and not fate:Next to that virtue is to know vice well,And her black spite expel,Which to effect (since no breast is so sure,Or safe, but she'll procureSome way of entrance) we must plant a guardOf thoughts to watch and wardAt th' eye and ear, the ports unto the mind,That no strange or unkindObject arrive there, but the heart, our spy,Give knowledge instantlyTo wakeful reason, our affections' king:Who, in th' examining,Will quickly taste the treason, and commitClose, the close cause of it.'Tis the securest policy we have,To make our sense our slave.But this true course is not embraced by many:By many? scarce by any.For either our affections do rebel,Or else the sentinel,That should ring larum to the heart, doth sleep:Or some great thought doth keepBack the intelligence, and falsely swearsThey're base and idle fearsWhereof the loyal conscience so complains.Thus, by these subtle trains,Do several passions invade the mind,And strike our reason blind:[295]Of which usurping rank, some have thought love.The first, as prone to moveMost frequent tumults, horrors, and unrests,In our inflamed breasts:But this doth from the cloud of error grow,Which thus we over-blow.The thing they here call Love is blind Desire,Armed with bow, shafts, and fire;Inconstant, like the sea, of whence't is born,Rough, swelling, like a storm;With whom who sails, rides on the surge of fear,And boils as if he wereIn a continual tempest. Now, true LoveNo such effects doth prove;That is an essence far more gende, fine,Pure, perfect, nay, divine;It is a golden chain let down from heaven,Whose links are bright and even,That falls like sleep on lovers, and combinesThe soft and sweetest mindsIn equal knots: this bears no brands nor darts,To murther different hearts,But in a calm and godlike unityPreserves community.O, who is he that in this peace enjoysTh' elixir of all joys?A form more fresh than are the Eden bowers,And lasting as her flowers:Richer than Time, and as Time's virtue rare:Sober, as saddest care;A fixed thought, an eye untaught to glance:Who, blest with such high chance,Would, at suggestion of a steep desire,Cast himself from the spireOf all his happiness? But, soft, I hearSome vicious fool draw near,That cries we dream, and swears there's no such thingAs this chaste love we sing.Peace, Luxury, thou art like one of thoseWho, being at sea, suppose,[296]Because they move, the continent doth so.No, Vice, we let thee know,Though thy wild thoughts with sparrows' wings do fly,Turtles can chastely die.And yet (in this t' express ourselves more clear)We do not number hereSuch spirits as are only continentBecause lust's means are spent;Or those who doubt the common mouth of fame,And for their place and nameCannot so safely sin. Their chastityIs mere necessity.Nor mean we those whom vows and conscienceHave filled with abstinence:Though we acknowledge, who can so abstainMakes a most blessed gain;He that for love of goodness hateth illIs more crown-worthy stillThan he, which for sin's penalty forbears:His heart sins, though he fears.But we propose a person like our Dove,Grac'd with a Phcenix' love;A beauty of that clear and sparkling light,Would make a day of night,And turn the blackest sorrows to bright joys:Whose od'rous breath destroysAll taste of bitterness, and makes the airAs sweet as she is fair.A body so harmoniously composed,As if nature disclosedAll her best symmetry in that one feature!O, so divine a creature,Who could be false to? chiefly when he knowsHow only she bestowsThe wealthy treasure of her love on him;Making his fortunes swimIn the full flood of her admired perfection?What savage, brute affectionWould not be fearful to offend a dameOf this excelling frame?[297]Much more a noble and right generous mindTo virtuous moods inclined,That knows the weight of guilt: he will refrainFrom thoughts of such a strain;And to his sense object this sentence ever,'Man may securely sin, but safely never.'
Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H.
¶WOULDS'T thou hear what man can sayIn a little? Reader, stay.Underneath this stone doth lieAs much beauty as could die;Which in life did harbour giveTo more virtue than doth live.If at all she had a faultLeave it buried in this vault.One name was Elizabeth,The other, let it sleep with death,Fitter, where it died, to tell,Than that it lived at all. Farewell.
On Lucy, Countess of Bedford
¶THIS morning timely wrapt with holy fire,I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,What kind of creature I could most desireTo know, serve, and love, as Poets use.I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat;I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride;I meant each softest virtue there should meet,Fit in that softer bosom to reside.Only a learned, and a manly soulI purposed her: that should with even powers,The rock, the spindle, and the shears controlOf Destiny, and spin her own free hours.Such when I meant to feign, and wished to see,My Muse bade BEDFORD write, and that was she!
An Ode to Himself
¶WHERE dost thou careless lieBuried in ease and sloth?Knowledge that sleeps, doth dieAnd this security,It is the common mothThat eats on wits and arts, and that destroys them both.
¶Are all the Aonian springsDried up? lies Thespia waste?Doth Clarius' harp want strings,That not a nymph now sings;Or droop they as disgraced,To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defaced?
¶If hence thy silence be,As 'tis too just a cause,Let this thought quicken thee:Minds that are great and freeShould not on fortune pause;'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.
¶What though the greedy fryBe taken with false baitsOf worded balladry,And think it poesy?They die with their conceits,And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.
¶Then take in hand thy lyre;Strike in thy proper strain;With Japhet's line aspireSol's chariot, for new fireTo give the world again:Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.
¶And, since our dainty ageCannot endure reproof,Make not thyself a page[299]To that strumpet the stage;But sing high and aloof,Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.
160 Hymn to Diana
¶QUEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep,Seated in thy silver chairState in wonted manner keep;Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellendy bright.
¶Earth, let not thy envious shadeDare itself to interpose;Cynthia's shining orb was madeHeaven to clear when day did close:Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.
¶Lay thy bow of pearl apartAnd thy crystal-shining quiver;Give unto the flying hartSpace to breathe, how short soever:Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellendy bright!
161 on Salathiel PavyA Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel
¶WEEP with me, all you that readThis little story;And know, for whom a tear you shedDeath's self is sorry.'Twas a child that so did thriveIn grace and feature,As Heaven and Nature seem'd to striveWhich own'd the creature.Years he number'd scarce thirteenWhen Fates turn'd cruel,Yet three fill'd zodiacs had he beenThe stage's jewel;[300]And did act (what now we moan)Old men so duly,As sooth the Parcae thought him one,He play'd so truly.So, by error, to his fateThey all consented;But, viewing him since, alas, too late!They have repented;And have sought, to give new birth,In baths to steep him;But, being so much too good for earth,Heaven vows to keep him.
His SUPPOSED MISTRESS
¶IF I freely can discoverWhat would please me in my lover,I would have her fair and witty,Savouring more of court than city;A little proud, but full of pity;Light and humourous in her toying;Oft building hopes, and soon destroying;Long, but sweet in the enjoying,Neither too easy, nor too hard:All extremes I would have barred.
¶She should be allowed her passions,So they were but used as fashions;Sometimes froward, and then frowning,Sometimes sickish, and then swowning,Every fit with change still crowning.Purely jealous I would have her;Then only constant when I crave her,'Tis a virtue should not save her.Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,Neither her peevishness annoy me.
To THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVEDThe AuthorMr. William ShakespeareAnd What He Hath Left Us
¶[Prefixed to the First Folio Edition of Shakespeare's Plays.]
¶To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,Am I thus ample to thy book and fame;While I confess thy writings to be suchAs neither man nor Muse can praise too much."Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these waysWere not the paths I meant unto thy praise;For seeliest Ignorance on these may light,Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right;Or blind Affection, which doth ne'er advanceThe truth, but gropes and urgeth all by chance;Or crafty Malice might pretend this praise,And think to ruin where it seem'd to raise.These are as some infamous bawd or whoreShould praise a matron. What could hurt her more?But thou art proof against them, and, indeed,Above the ill-fortune of them, or the need.I, therefore, will begin. Soul of the age!The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage,My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee byChaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lieA little further, to make thee a room:Thou art a monument without a tomb,And art alive still, while thy book doth live,And we have wits to read, and praise to give.That I not mix thee so, my brain excuses;I mean, with great but disproportion'd Muses.For, if I thought my judgment were of years,I should commit thee, surely, with thy peers.And tell how far thou didst our Lyly outshine,Or sporting Kyd, or Marlowe's mighty line.And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek,From thence, to honour thee, I would not seekFor names; but call forth thund'ring Aeschylus,[302]Euripides, and Sophocles to us,Paccuvius, Accius, him of Cordova deadTo life again, to hear thy buskin treadAnd shake a stage; or when thy socks were on,Leave thee alone, for the comparisonOf all that insolent Greece or haughty RomeSent forth; or since did from their ashes come.Triumph, my Britain! Thou hast one to showTo whom all scenes of Europe homage owe.He was not of an age, but for all time!And all the Muses still were in their prime,When, like Apollo, he came forth to warmOur ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm.Nature herself was proud of his designs,And joy'd to wear the dressing of his lines,Which were so richly spun, and woven so fitAs, since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;But antiquated and deserted lie,As they were not of Nature's family.Yet must I not give Nature all! Thy art,My gende Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.For though the Poet's matter Nature beHis art doth give the fashion. And that heWho casts to write a living line, must sweat(Such as thine are), and strike the second heatUpon the Muses' anvil, turn the same(And himself with it), that he thinks to frame;Or for the laurel he may gain a scorn!For a good Poet's made as well as born;And such wert thou! Look how the father's faceLives in his issue; even so, the raceOf Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shinesIn his well-turned and true-filed lines;In each of which he seems to shake a lanceAs brandish'd at the eyes of Ignorance.Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it wereTo see thee in our water yet appear,And make those flights upon the banks of Thames[303]That so did take Eliza, and our James!But stay, I see thee in the hemisphereAdvanc'd, and made a constellation there!Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rageOr influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage;Which since thy flight from hence hath mourn'd like night,And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.