Ben Jonson

Ben Jonson (1572 -1637)

Ben Jonson was one of the leading literary figures of his day, Johnson was an associate of Shakespeare and J.Donne. He was an accomplished playwright and critic. He was born in 1572, the son of a clergy but his father died before he was born. Educated at Westminster School he left to join his step-fathers trade of being a brick layer. However he did not like this so joined the army. On his return from Flanders he married and earned his living from joining a theatrical group and writing plays.

In 1597 he was imprisoned for his part in writing the play ‘The Isle of Dogs’ the play was considered seditious by the authorities. After being released for this crime Johnson got involved in a duel and killed the other partner. He was tried at the Old Bailey for murder and narrowly escaped the gallows. During this time he converted to Roman Catholicism which became increasingly unpopular after the gunpowder plot of 1605.

Ben Jonson had a fiery temperament and could be harsh critic of fellow play writers. However his plays, especially comedies such as “Volpone, or the Fox” were widely regarded. In 1616 he was appointed Poet Laureate, a prestigious position with a substantial pay.

Poems

1. A Hymn To God The Father

HEARE mee, O God !
A broken heart,
    Is my best part :
Use still thy rod,
    That I may prove
    Therein, thy Love.

If thou hadst not
    Beene stern to mee,
    But left me free,
I had forgot
    My selfe and thee.

For sin’s so sweet,
    As minds ill bent
    Rarely repent,
Until they meet
    Their punishment.

Who more can crave
    Than thou hast done :
    That gav’st a Sonne,
To free a slave?
    First made of nought ;
    With All since bought.

Sinne, Death, and Hell,
    His glorious Name
    Quite overcame,
Yet I rebell,
    And slight the same.

But, I’ll come in,
    Before my losse,
    Me farther tosse,
As sure to win.
    Under his Crosse.

- Ben Jonson

2. It is not growing like a tree

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

3. 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.

4. 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 honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
    It could not wither’d be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
    And sent’st it back to me :
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,  
    Not of itself, but thee.

5. To Heaven

Good and great GOD ! can I not think of thee,
But it must straight my melancholy be ?
Is it interpreted in me disease,
That, laden with my sins, I seek for ease ?
O be thou witness, that the reins dost know
And hearts of all, if I be sad for show ;
And judge me after : if I dare pretend
To aught but grace, or aim at other end.
As thou art all, so be thou all to me,
First, midst, and last, converted One, and Three !   
My faith, my hope, my love ; and in this state,
My judge, my witness, and my advocate.
Where have I been this while exiled from thee,
And whither rapt, now thou but stoop’st to me ?
Dwell, dwell here still !  O, being every where,
How can I doubt to find thee ever here ?
I know my state, both full of shame and scorn,
Conceived in sin, and unto labor born,
Standing with fear, and must with horror fall,
And destined unto judgment, after all.                     
I feel my griefs too, and there scarce is ground,
Upon my flesh t’ inflict another wound :
Yet dare I not complain, or wish for death,
With holy PAUL, lest it be thought the breath
Of discontent ;  or that these prayers be
For weariness of life, not love of thee.

6. Why I Write Not of Love

~
SOME act of LOVE’S bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him in my verse :
Which when he felt, Away, quoth he,
Can poets hope to fetter me ?
It is enough, they once did get  
Mars and my mother, in their net :
I wear not these my wings in vain.
With which he fled me ;  and again,
Into my rhymes could ne’er be got
By any art :  then wonder not,            
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow cold.