Ben Jonson (बेन जॉनसन)

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.

It is not growing like a tree,In 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 day,Is fairer far in May.

Although it fall and die that night—,It was the plant and flower of light.

In small proportions we just beauties see,And in short measures life may perfect be.

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,Now the sun is laid to sleep.

Seated in thy silver chair,State in wonted manner keep.

Hesperus entreats thy light,Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade,Dare itself to interpose.

Cynthia's shining orb was made,Heaven to clear when day did close.

Bless us then with wished sight,Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,And thy crystal-shining quiver.

Give unto the flying hart,Space to breathe, how short soever.

Thou that mak'st a day of night,Goddess excellently bright.

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 withered 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.

To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,Am I thus ample to thy book and fame.

While I confess thy writings to be such,As neither Man nor Muse can praise too much.

'Tis true, and all men's suffrage. But these ways,Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise.

For silliest ignorance on these may light,Which when it sounds at best but echoes right.

Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance,The truth, but gropes, and urges all by chance.

Or crafty malice might pretend this praise,And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.

These are as some infamous bawd or whore,Should praise a matron. What could hurt her more?.

But thou art proof against them, and indeed,Above th' 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 by,Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie.

A 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 disproportioned Muses.

For if I thought my judgement 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 seek.

For names; but call forth thundering Aeschylus,Euripides, and Sophocles to us.

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,To live again, to hear thy buskin tread.

And shake a stage; or, when thy socks were on,Leave thee alone for the comparison.

Of all that insolent Greece or haughty Rome,Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come.

Triumph, my Britain, thou hast one to show,To 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 warm,Our ears, or, like a Mercury, to charm!.

Nature herself was proud of his designs,And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!.

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit,As, 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 gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part.

For though the poet's matter nature be,His art doth give the fashion; and that he.

Who casts to write a living line must sweat,(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat.

Upon 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 face,Lives in his issue, even so the race.

Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines,In his well turned and true-filed lines.

In each of which he seems to shake a lance,As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

Sweet swan of Avon! what a sight it were,To see thee in our waters yet appear.

And make those flights upon the banks of Thames,That did so take Eliza and our James!.

But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere,Advanced, and made a constellation there.

Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage,Or influence, chide or cheer the drooping stage.

Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourned like night,And despairs day, but for thy volume's light.

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.

to the Immortal Memory and Friendship of that noble pair, Sir Lucius Cary and Sir H. Morison,IT is not growing like a tree.

In 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 day.

Is fairer far in May,Although it fall and die that night.

It was the plant and flower of light,In small proportions we just beauties see.

And in short measures, life may perfect be,Call, noble Lucius, then for wine.

And let thy looks with gladness shine,Accept this garland, plant it on thy head.

And think--nay, know--thy Morison 's not dead,He leap'd the present age.

Possest with holy rage,To see that bright eternal Day.

Of which we Priests and Poets say,Such truths as we expect for happy men.

And there he lives with memory--and Ben,Jonson: who sung this of him, ere he went.

Himself to rest,Or tast a part of that full joy he meant.

To have exprest,In this bright Asterism.

Where it were friendship's schism--,Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry--.

To separate these twy,Lights, the Dioscuri.