Ben Jonson

(11 June 1572 – 6 August 1637 / London / England)

Ben Jonson Poems

1. Third Charm from Masque of Queens 11/23/2015
2. Hymn To The Belly 3/20/2015
3. Gypsy Songs 12/26/2014
4. To Censorious Courtling 3/7/2012
5. To Doctor Empiric 3/7/2012
6. His Supposed Mistress 3/7/2012
7. To Francis Beaumont 4/9/2010
8. The Noble Balm 4/9/2010
9. On A Robbery 3/7/2012
10. Still To Be Neat 11/21/2014
11. To Fine Lady Would-Be 3/7/2012
12. Xi: Epode 4/9/2010
13. Xiii: Epistle: To Katherine, Lady Aubigny 4/9/2010
14. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 4/9/2010
15. On Elizabeth L. H. 4/9/2010
16. The Speech 4/9/2010
17. On Poet-Ape 3/7/2012
18. Song: From Cynthia's Revels 4/9/2010
19. Praeludium 4/9/2010
20. A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Saviour 3/7/2012
21. The Thames At Mortlake 4/9/2010
22. The Triumph Of Charis 4/9/2010
23. Vii: Song: That Women Are But Mens Shaddows 4/9/2010
24. Porth Ceiriad Bay 4/9/2010
25. In The Ember Days Of My Last Free Summer 4/9/2010
26. Viii: Song: To Sicknesse 4/9/2010
27. The Alchemist: Prologue 4/9/2010
28. On Don Surly 4/9/2010
29. The Metamorphosed Gypsies (Excerpt) 4/9/2010
30. Iv: To The World 4/9/2010
31. Vi: To The Same 4/9/2010
32. X: And Must I Sing? 4/9/2010
33. The Speeches Of Gratulations 4/9/2010
34. On Salathiel Pavy 4/9/2010
35. Simplex Munditiis 4/9/2010
36. Venus' Runaway 4/9/2010
37. To The Reader 4/9/2010
38. So Breaks The Sun 4/9/2010
39. Song From The Silent Woman 4/9/2010
40. Ode Upon The Censure Of His New Inn 4/9/2010
Best Poem of Ben Jonson

On My First Son

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou'wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

Read the full of On My First Son

To Celia

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

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