Do but consider this small dust
Here running in the glass,
By atoms moved;
Could you believe that this
The body was
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
More verses by Ben Jonson
- Praeludium
- Song: From Cynthia's Revels
- A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Saviour
- The Triumph Of Charis
- Song: To Cynthia