53. An Ode for Ben Jonson
Ah Ben!Say how or whenShall we, thy guests,Meet at those lyric feasts,Made at the Sun,The Dog, the Triple Tun;Where we such clusters had,As made us nobly wild, not mad?And yet each verse of thineOut-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!Or come again,Or send to usThy wit’s great overplus;But teach us yetWisely to husband it,Lest we that talent spend;And having once brought to an endThat precious stock,—the storeOf such a wit the world should have no more.
54. TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES
Now is the time for mirth;Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;For with [the] flowery earthThe golden pomp is come.
The golden pomp is come;For now each tree does wear,Made of her pap and gum,Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the Rose, and nowTh’ Arabian dew besmearsMy uncontrolled brow,And my retorted hairs.
Homer, this health to thee!In sack of such a kind,That it would make thee see,Though thou wert ne’er so blind
Next, Virgil I’ll call forth,To pledge this second healthIn wine, whose each cup’s worthAn Indian commonwealth.
A goblet next I’ll drinkTo Ovid; and supposeMade he the pledge, he’d thinkThe world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cupOf aromatic wine,Catullus! I quaff upTo that terse muse of thine.
Wild I am now with heat:O Bacchus! cool thy rays;Or frantic I shall eatThy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!
Round, round, the roof does run;And being ravish’d thus,Come, I will drink a tunTo my Propertius.
Now, to Tibullus next,This flood I drink to thee;—But stay, I see a text,That this presents to me.
Behold! Tibullus liesHere burnt, whose small returnOf ashes scarce sufficeTo fill a little urn.
Trust to good verses then;They only will aspire,When pyramids, as men,Are lost i’ th’ funeral fire.
And when all bodies meetIn Lethe to be drown’d;Then only numbers sweetWith endless life are crown’d.
55. THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS, CALLING HIM TO ELYSIUM
DESUNT NONNULLA—
Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings,Let our souls fly to th’ shades, wherever springsSit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil,Roses and cassia, crown the untill’d soil;Where no disease reigns, or infection comesTo blast the air, but amber-gris and gums.This, that, and ev’ry thicket doth transpireMore sweet than storax from the hallow’d fire;Where ev’ry tree a wealthy issue bearsOf fragrant apples, blushing plums, or pears;And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shewLike morning sun-shine, tinselling the dew.Here in green meadows sits eternal May,Purfling the margents, while perpetual daySo double-gilds the air, as that no nightCan ever rust th’ enamel of the light:Here naked younglings, handsome striplings, runTheir goals for virgins’ kisses; which when done,Then unto dancing forth the learned roundCommix’d they meet, with endless roses crown’d.And here we’ll sit on primrose-banks, and seeLove’s chorus led by Cupid; and we’ll heTwo loving followers too unto the grove,Where poets sing the stories of our love.There thou shalt hear divine Musaeus singOf Hero and Leander; then I’ll bringThee to the stand, where honour’d Homer readsHis Odyssees and his high Iliads;About whose throne the crowd of poets throngTo hear the incantation of his tongue:To Linus, then to Pindar; and that done,I’ll bring thee, Herrick, to Anacreon,Quaffing his full-crown’d bowls of burning wine,And in his raptures speaking lines of thine,Like to his subject; and as his franticLooks shew him truly Bacchanalian like,Besmear’d with grapes,—welcome he shall thee thither,Where both may rage, both drink and dance together.Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid, byWhom fair Corinna sits, and doth complyWith ivory wrists his laureat head, and steepsHis eye in dew of kisses while he sleeps.Then soft Catullus, sharp-fang’d Martial,And towering Lucan, Horace, Juvenal,And snaky Persius; these, and those whom rage,Dropt for the jars of heaven, fill’d, t’ engageAll times unto their frenzies; thou shalt thereBehold them in a spacious theatre:Among which glories, crown’d with sacred baysAnd flatt’ring ivy, two recite their plays,Beaumont and Fletcher, swans, to whom all earsListen, while they, like sirens in their spheres,Sing their Evadne; and still more for theeThere yet remains to know than thou canst seeBy glimm’ring of a fancy; Do but come,And there I’ll shew thee that capacious roomIn which thy father, Jonson, now is placedAs in a globe of radiant fire, and gracedTo be in that orb crown’d, that doth includeThose prophets of the former magnitude,And he one chief. But hark! I hear the cock,The bell-man of the night, proclaim the clockOf late struck One; and now I see the primeOf day break from the pregnant east:—’tis timeI vanish:—more I had to say,But night determines here; Away!