And, since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof,
Make not thyself a page To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof,
Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull ass's hoof.1
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make men better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sear : A lily of a day
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.
O, do not wanton with those eyes, Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise, Lest shame destroy their being.
O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me; Nor look too kind on my desires, For then my hopes will spill me.
O, do not steep them in thy tears, For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears:
Mine own enough betray me.
1 This scornful mood was characteristic of Jonson, especially in his early life. The last line of the "Ode," evidently a favourite with its author, occurs also at the close of the Epilogue to The Poetaster, written in 1601 :
I, that spend half my nights and all my days
Here in a cell, to get a dark pale face,
To come forth worth the ivy or the bays,
And, in this age, can hope no other grace
Leave me ! There's something come into my thought
That must and shall be sung high and aloof,
Safe from the wolf's black jaw and the dull ass's hoof.
THE SONG OF HESPERUS.1
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 has made
Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishèd 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!
TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, MASTER WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEft us.
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 urgeth all by chance; Or crafty malice might pretend this praise, And think to ruin where it seemed to raise.... 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 by Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further off, to make thee 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 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 had'st small Latin and less Greek, From thence to honour thee I will not seek For names: but call forth thundering Æschylus, 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 twice 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 he1 Who casts to write a living line must sweat Such as thine are, and strike the second heat Upon the Muse's 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 turnèd and true filèd 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 water yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did 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 déspairs day, but for thy volume's light.
Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Of touch or marble, nor canst boast a row Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told, Or stair, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile, And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health as well as sport: Thy Mount, to which thy dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade : That taller Tree,2 which of a nut was set
At his great birth where all the Muses met. There, in the writhèd bark, are cut the names Of many a sylvan taken with his flames; And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke The lighter fauns to reach thy Ladies' Oak. Thy copse, too, named of Gamage,3 thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends,
1 Formerly Pencester, in Kent: the ancient seat of the Sidneys. 2 Sir Philip Sidney's Oak. 3 Gamage's Bower.
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doth feed; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed ; Each bank doth yield thee conies, and the tops Fertile of wood. Ashore, and Sidney's Copse, To crown thy open table, doth provide The purpled pheasant with the speckled side. The painted partridge lies in every field, And for thy mess is willing to be killed. And, if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish, Thou hast thy ponds that pay thee tribute fish,- Fat aged carps that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat, As loth the second draught or cast to stay, Officiously at first themselves betray;
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy Orchard fruit, thy Garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come; The blushing apricot and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And, though thy walls be of the country stone,
They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan ; There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown,
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some, that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.
But what can this (more than express their love) Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow With all that hospitality doth know !
MY PICTURE, LEFT IN SCOTLAND (1619).
I now think Love is rather deaf than blind; For, else, it could not be
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my suit behind.
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