Ben Jonson

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

Ben Jonson Poems

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

His Excuse For Loving

Let it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty years,
I have had, and have, my peers.
Poets, though divine, are men;
Some have loved as old again.
And it is not always face,
Clothes, or fortune gives the grace,
Or the feature, or the youth;

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