« AnteriorContinuar »
UPON THE HAPPY FALSE RUMOR OF HIS DEATH, THE TWO AND TWENTIETH DAY OF MARCH, 1607.31
That we thy loss might know, and thou our love,
Do beg thy care unto thy after-state.
LII. TO CENSORIOUS COURTLING.
Courtling, I rather thou shouldst utterly Dispraise my work, than praise it frostily: When I am read thou feign'st a weak applause, As if thou wert my friend, but lack'dst a cause. This but thy judgment fools: the other way Would both thy folly and thy spite betray.
LIII. TO OLD-END GATHERER.
Long-gathering Old-end, I did fear thee wise, When having pilled 32 a book which no man buys,
31 The false report was that his majesty had been assas sinated while he was out hunting near Woking in Surrey. The rumor was so circumstantial in its details, even to the poisoned knife with which the regicide was said to have been committed, that it obtained immediate credence, and produced universal consternation. - B.
22 That is, pillaged.
Thou wert content the author's name to lose :
But when, in place, thou didst the patron's choose,
It was as if thou printed hadst an oath,
To give the world assurance thou wert both;
Thou art the father and the witness too.
LIV. ON CHEVERIL.
Cheveril cries out, my verses libels are;
LV. TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT. 34
How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse, That unto me dost such religion use!
33 That is, except yourself, who but a fool, &c. - B. 34 This short poem is an answer to a letter which Beaumont, then in the country with Fletcher, sent to Jonson, together with two unfinished comedies. . . The passage to which the text more immediately applies is the following:
"Fate once again
Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain
The way of knowledge for me, and then I,
Protest it will my greatest comfort be,
To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee.
Ben, when these scenes are perfect, we'll taste wine,
I'll drink thy muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine."-G.
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth! At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st; And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st! What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves? What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives? When even there, where most thou praisest me, For writing better, I must envy thee.
Poor Poet-ape, that would be thought our chief, Whose works are e'en the frippery of wit, From brocage is become so bold a thief,
As we, the robbed, leave rage and pity it. At first he made low shifts, would pick and glean, Buy the reversion of old plays; now grown To a little wealth, and credit in the scene,
He takes up all, makes each man's wit his own: And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes. The sluggish gaping auditor devours;
He marks not whose 'twas first: and after times May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
Fool! as if half eyes will not know a fleece From locks of wool, or shreds from the whole, piece.
85 If any poet of eminence is to be sought for to fit these lines, which may be doubted, the abusive taunts of Dekker, when he rings the changes on Jonson the Bricklayer, might offer some justification for supposing this to be a retaliatory epigram.
LVII. ON BAWDS AND USURERS.
If, as their ends, their fruits were so the same, Bawdry and usury were one kind of game.
LVIII. TO GROOM IDIOT.
Idiot, last night I prayed thee but forbear
LIX. ON SPIES.
Spies, you are lights in state, but of base stuff, Who, when you've burned yourselves down to
Stink and are thrown away. End fair enough.
LX. TO WILLIAM LORD MOUNTEAGLE.
Lo, what my country should have done (have raised
An obelisk, or column to thy name, Or, if she would but modestly have praised Thy fact, in brass or marble writ the same) I, that am glad of thy great chance, here do! And, proud my work shall outlast common deeds,
36 The nobleman who received the mysterious letter which led to the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot.-B.
Durst think it great, and worthy wonder too,
LXI. TO FOOL, OR KNAVE.
Thy praise or dispraise is to me alike,
LXII. TO FINE LADY WOULD-BE.
Fine Madame Would-be, wherefore should you
That love to make so well, a child to bear?
To make amends, you're thought a wholesome
What should the cause be? Oh, you live at
And there's both loss of time and loss of sport In a great belly. Write then on thy womb, "Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb."
LXIII. TO ROBERT, EARL OF SALISBURY,
Who can consider thy right courses run, With what thy virtue on the times hath won,