They never danc'd on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession, Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company Their mirth, was punish'd sure; It was a just and Christian deed Such justices as you! BY BEN JONSON. Un [BEN JONSON was born in Westminster, in 1574, a month after his father's death. He passed his early days at Westminster School, and was then put to the trade of a bricklayer; but, disliking that business, he ran away, and joined the army. After his return from Flanders, where he served, he went to the University of Cambridge, but was soon compelled by poverty to leave it, and go on the stage. happily he killed a brother actor in a duel, for which he narrowly escaped being hanged; while in prison he became a convert to the Roman Catholic religion, in which he remained for some years. For the rest of his life he continued to write plays, and having had a share in "Eastward Ho," which was supposed to reflect on the Scotch, he was again sent to prison in the reign of James I.; when he obtained his liberty, he flattered that weak prince, and became his favourite. Charles I. gave him a pension, but his extravagant habits always kept him poor. He died in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A convivial associate induced a stone cutter who was erecting a monument in Poet's Corner to him, to inscribe on it the now memorable epitaph, "O rare Ben Jonson ;" and he well deserved it.] DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with minc; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And I'll not look for wine. The thirst, that from the soul doth rise, But might I of Jove's nectar sup I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honouring 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. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. BEN JONSON. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse SEE the chariot at hand here of love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her, she is bright T Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her! And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow, Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of the beaver, Or have smell'd of the bud o' the brier? Or the 'nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! |