Ben Jonson

Still may syllabes jar with time, Still may reason war with rhyme, Resting never!

Rhyme, the rack of finest wits, That expresseth but by fits, True conceit, Spoiling senses of their treasure, Cozening judgement with a measure, But false weight.

Where dost thou careless lie, Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth, That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.

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.

Shine forth, thou star of poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd like night, And despairs day, but for thy volumes light.

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

a good poet's made, as well as born. And such wert thou.

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

He was not of an age, but for all time!

For if I thought my judgment were of years, I should commit thee surely with thy peers, And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine, Or sporting Kyd, or Marlow's mighty line. And though thou hadst small Latin and less Greek, From thence …

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.

Soul of the age! The applause, delight, the wonder of our stage!

Whilst that for which all virtue now is sold, And almost every vice — almighty gold.

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.

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.

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.

Come my Celia, let us prove, While we can, the sports of love; Time will not be ours forever, He at length our good will sever. Spend not then his gifts in vain; Suns that set may rise again,

Underneath this stone doth lie As much beauty as could die; Which in life did harbor give To more virtue than doth live.

Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin, Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.

The ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds: Through which our merit leads us to our meeds. How willful 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: …

Thy praise or dispraise is to me alike; One doth not stroke me, nor the other strike.

He that fears death, or mourns it, in the just, Shows of the resurrection little trust.

There's reason good, that you good laws should make: Men's manners ne'er were viler, for your sake.

If all you boast of your great art be true; Sure, willing poverty lives most in you.