Ben Jonson: Verses about Betrayal

COURTLING, I rather thou should'st 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.

Kisse mee, Sweet: The wary lover
Can your favours keepe, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kisse againe: no creature comes.
Kisse, and score up wealthy summes
On my lips, thus hardly sundred,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Adde a thousand, and so more:
Till you equall with the store,
All the grasse that Rumney yeelds,
Or the sands in Chelsey fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that guild his streames,
In the silent sommer-nights,
When youths ply their stoln delights.
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'hem as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd.

FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought
That hour upon my morn of age;
Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,
My part is ended on thy stage.

Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear
As little as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst not show nor bear
More hatred than thou hast to me.

My tender, first, and simple years
Thou didst abuse and then betray;
Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears,
When all the causes were away.

Then in a soil hast planted me
Where breathe the basest of thy fools;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride and ignorance the schools;

Where nothing is examined, weigh'd,
But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed;
Where every freedom is betray'd,
And every goodness tax'd or grieved.

But what we're born for, we must bear:
Our frail condition it is such
That what to all may happen here,
If 't chance to me, I must not grutch.

Else I my state should much mistake
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kind-that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.

No, I do know that I was born
To age, misfortune, sickness, grief:
But I will bear these with that scorn
As shall not need thy false relief.

Nor for my peace will I go far,
As wanderers do, that still do roam;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosom, and at home.

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 them stop:
Yet art thou falser than thy wares.
And, knowing this should I yet stay,
Like such as blow away their lives,
And never will redeeme a day,
Enamor'd of their golden gyves?
Or having scap'd, shall I returne,
And thrust my neck into the noose,
From whence, so lately, I did burne,
With all my powers, my selfe to loose?
What bird, or beast is knowne so dull,
That fled his cage, or broke his chaine,
And tasting aire, and freedome, wull
Render his head in there againe?
If these, who have but sense, can shun
The engines, that have them annoy'd;
Little, for mee, had reason done,
If I could not thy ginnes avoid.
Yes, threaten, doe. Alas I feare
As little, as I hope from thee:
I know thou canst nor shew, nor beare
More hatred, than thou hast to mee.
My tender, first, and simple yeares
Thou did'st abuse, and then betray;
Since stird'st up jealousies and feares,
When all the causes were away.
Then, in a soile hast planted me,
Where breathe the basest of thy fooles;
Where envious arts professed be,
And pride, and ignorance the schooles,
Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,
But, as 'tis rumor'd, so beleev'd:
Where every freedome is betray'd,
And every goodnesse tax'd, or griev'd.
But, what we'are borne for, wee must beare:
Our fraile condition it is such,
That, what to all may happen here,
If't chance to mee, I must not grutch.
Else, I my state should much mistake,
To harbour a divided thought
From all my kinde: that, for my sake,
There should a miracle be wrought.
No, I doe know, that I was borne
To age, misfortune, sicknesse, griefe:
But I will beare these, with that scorne,
As shall not need thy false reliefe.
Nor for my peace will I goe farre,
As wandrers doe, that still doe rome;
But make my strengths, such as they are,
Here in my bosome, and at home.

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars, or a roofe of gold:
Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told;
Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenc'd the while.
Thou joy'st in better marks, of soile, of ayre,
Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.
Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:
Thy
Mount
, to which the
Dryads
do resort,
Where Pan, and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beech, and the chest-nut shade;
That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the
Muses
met.
There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names
Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames
And thence the ruddy
Satyres
oft provoke
The lighter
Faunes
, to reach thy
Ladies oke
.
Thy copp's, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou would'st feast, or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed:
The middle grounds thy Mares, and Horses breed.
Each banck, doth yeeld thee Coneyes; and the topps
Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copp's,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled Phesant, with the speckled side:
The painted Partrich lyes in every field,
And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-swolne
Medway
faile 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 kinde to eat,
As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay,
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.
Bright Eeles, 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 ayre, and new as are the houres.
The earely Cherry, with the later Plum,
Fig, Grape, and Quince, each in his time doth come:
The blushing Apricot, and woolly Peach
Hang on thy wals, that every child may reach.
And though thy wals be of the countrey stone,
They' are rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans grone;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them downe;
But all come in, the farmer and the clowne:
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy Lord, and Lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a Capon, some a rurall Cake,
Some Nuts, some Apples; some that think they make
The better Cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An Embleme of themselves, in plum, or peare.
But what can this (more than expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above
The need of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all, that hospitality doth know!
Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to eat,
Without his feare, and of thy Lords own meat:
Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine,
That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.
And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,
At great mens tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tels my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envy:
But gives me what I call for, and lets me eate;
He knowes, below, he shall finde plentie of meate;
Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;
As if thou, then, wert mines, or I raign'd here:
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King James, when hunting late, this way,
With his brave sonne, the Prince, they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every harth as the desires
Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,
To entertayne them; or the Countrey came,
With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.
What (great, I will not say, but) sodaine cheare
Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd
On thy good lady, then! who therein, reap'd
The just reward of her high huswifery;
To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was farre: and not a roome, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall.
His children thy great lord may call his owne:
A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne.
They are, and have been taught religion: Thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.
Each morne, and even, they are taught to pray,
With the whole houshold, and may, every day,
Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.