Ode to Ben Jonson

AH Ben! Say how or when Shall 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 thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit’s great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.

Collection: 
English
1611
Robert Herrick
Sub Title: 
Descriptive Poems: I. Personal: Great Writers

More from Poet

  • A venyige

    Azt álmodtam éjjel, hogy testem átváltozott: szőlőtő lettem, rügyet neveltem, lombot, szárat, s beleptem velük Lúciámat, indáimmal combját és pöttöm lábát is átöleltem többször, majd sok mohó, de lágy kacsommal hátulját is magához fontam, koszorúnak sok zöldessárga fürtöt aggattam homlokára, míg...

  • Oberon’s Feast

    Shapcot! to thee the Fairy State I with discretion dedicate: Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar, Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We’ll see the Fairy-court anon. A little mushroom-table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread, A moon-parched grain of...

  • Delight in Disorder

    A Sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness; A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Inthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the...

  • Ode to Ben Jonson

    AH Ben! Say how or when Shall 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 thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine...

  • To Blossoms

    Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ’T is pity Nature brought ye...