On Something, That Walks Somewhere

At court I met it, in clothes brave enough
To be a courtier, and looks grave enough
To seem a statesman: as I near it came,
It made me a great face. I asked the name.
"A lord," it cried, "buried in flesh and blood,
And such from whom let no man hope least good,
For I will do none; and as little ill,
For I will dare none." Good lord, walk dead still.

Ben Jonson

Ben Jonson was an English playwright and poet, best known for his satirical plays and lyric poetry. Born on June 11, 1572, Jonson's works, including 'Volpone' and 'The Alchemist,' were critical of social norms and human follies. A contemporary and rival of Shakespeare, he was a significant figure in English Renaissance literature. Jonson also contributed to the development of English poetry through his masques and epigrams. He died on August 6, 1637.

Ben Jonson

To Heaven

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

Epitaph

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

An Ode To Himself

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

To Lucy, Countess Of Bedford, With John Donne's Satires

Ben Jonson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

To My Book

It will be looked for, book, when some but see
Thy title, Epigrams, and named of me,
Thou should'st be bold, licentious, full of gall,
Wormwood and sulphur, sharp and toothed withal,
Become a petulant thing, hurl ink and wit
As madmen stones, not caring whom they hit.
Deceive their malice who could wish it so,
And by thy wiser temper let men know
Thou art not covetous of least self-fame
Made from the hazard of another's shame
Much less with lewd, profane, and beastly phrase
To catch the world's loose laughter or vain gaze.
He that departs with his own honesty
For vulgar praise, doth it too dearly buy.

Ben Jonson

To Heaven

Good, and great God, can I not think of thee,
But it must, straight, my melancholy bee?
Is it interpreted in mee disease,
That, laden with my sinnes. I seeke for ease?
O, be thou witnesse, that the reines dost know,
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show,
And judge mee after: if I dare pretend
To ought but grace, or ayme at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to mee,
First, midst, and last, converted one, and three;
My faith, my hope, my love: and in this state,
My judge, my witnesse, and my advocate.
Where have I been this while exil'd from thee?
And whither rapt, now thou but stoup'st to mee?
Dwell, dwell here still: O, being every-where,
How can I doubt to finde thee ever, here?
I know my state, both full of shame, and scorne,
Conceiv'd in sinn...

Ben Jonson

To Sir Robert Wroth

How blest art thou, canst love the countrey, Wroth,
Whether by choyce, or fate, or both!
And, though so neere the Citie, and the Court,
Art tane with neithers vice, nor sport:
That at great times, art no ambitious guest
Of Sheriffes dinner, or Maiors feast.
Nor com'st to view the better cloth of State;
The richer hangings, or crowne-plate;
Nor throng'st (when masquing is) to have a fight
Of the short braverie of the night;
To view the jewels, stuffes, the paines, the wit
There wasted, some not paid for yet!
But canst, at home, in thy securer rest,
Live, with un-bought provision blest;
Free from proud porches, or their guilded roofes,
'Mongst loughing heards, and solid hoofes:
Along'st the curled woods, and painted meades,
Through which a serpent river lea...

Ben Jonson

Clerimont's Song

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 arts 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

Courtier And Proteus.

        The country shelters the disgrace
        Of every courtier out of place:
        When, doomed to exercise and health,
        O'er his estate he scatters wealth;
        There he builds schemes for others' ruin,
        As Philip's son of old was doing.

        A wandless one, upon the strand,
        Wandered with heavy hours on hand:
        The murmuring waters ran and broke;
        Proteus arose, and him bespoke:

        "Come ye from court, I ask? Your mien
        Is so importantly serene."

        The courtier answered, friends had tricked him,
        And that he was a party's victim.

        Proteus replied: "I hold the skill
        To change to any shape at will.
        But I am told at court there be
        ...

John Gay

To The World

A farewell for a Gentlewoman, vertuous and noble

False world, good-night, since thou hast brought
That houre upon my morne of age,
Hence-forth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.
Doe not once hope, that thou canst tempt
A spirit so resolv'd to tread
Upon thy throat, and live exempt
From all the nets that thou canst spread.
I know thy formes are studied arts,
Thy subtill wayes, be narrow straits;
Thy curtesie but sudden starts,
And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits.
I know too, though thou strut, and paint,
Yet art thou both shrunke up, and old;
That onely fooles make thee a saint,
And all thy good is to be sold.
I know thou whole art but a shop
Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares,
To take the weake, or make...

Ben Jonson