Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 33

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

185. To Celia

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 rise Doth 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 thee As giving it a hope that there It could not wither'd be; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent'st it back to me; Since when it grows, and smells, I swear, Not of itself but thee!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

186. Simplex Munditiis

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, 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.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

187. The Shadow

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?

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

188. 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 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 on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth!

Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth!

Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it?

Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath s.m.u.tch'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!

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

189. An Elegy

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 Throughout your form as, though that move And draw and conquer all men's love, This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet--because 'Tis of your flesh, and that you use The n.o.blest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws.

But who should less expect from you?

In whom alone Love lives again: By whom he is restored to men, And kept and bred and brought up true.

His falling temples you have rear'd, The wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd:

And on them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty's expense, As Love to acquit such excellence Is gone himself into your name.

And you are he--the deity To whom all lovers are design'd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I--

Who as an off'ring at your shrine Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you What I in her am grieved to want!

allay] alloy.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637

190. A Farewell to the World

FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That 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 fear As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple years Thou 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 me Where 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 such That what to all may happen here, If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake To harbour a divided thought From all my kind--that, for my sake, There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I do know that I was born To age, misfortune, sickness, grief: But I will bear these with that scorn As 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.

Ben Jonson. 1573-1637