Ben Jonson

The noble nature

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.

The Dream

Or scorn, or pity on me take,
I must the true relation make,
I am undone to-night :
Love in a subtil dream disguised,
hath both my heart and me surprised,
Whom never yet he durst attempt t' awake ;
Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the delight,
Or spite ;
But leaves me to inquire,
In all my wild desire,
Of Sleep again, who was his aid,
And Sleep, so guilty and afraid,
As since he dares not come within my sight.

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 did'st only breathe
And send'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!

Previous | List of poems | Top | Home | Next