Ben Jonson

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

Ben Jonson Poems

1. A Celebration Of Charis: I. His Excuse For Loving 4/9/2010
2. A Celebration Of Charis: Iv. Her Triumph 4/9/2010
3. A Farewell To The World 4/9/2010
4. A Fit Of Rhyme Against Rhyme 4/9/2010
5. A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Saviour 3/7/2012
6. A Hymn To God The Father 4/9/2010
7. A Nymph’s Passion 3/7/2012
8. A Pangyre 4/9/2010
9. A Pindaric Ode 4/9/2010
10. A Sonnet, To The Noble Lady, The Lady Mary Wroth 4/9/2010
11. An Elegy 4/9/2010
12. An Ode To Himself 4/9/2010
13. Begging Another 4/9/2010
14. Blaney's Last Directions 4/9/2010
15. Christmas, His Masque (Extract) 4/9/2010
16. Come, My Celia 4/9/2010
17. Epitaph On Elizabeth, L.H 4/9/2010
18. Epitaph On S.P., A Child Of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel 4/9/2010
19. Epitaph On The Countess Of Pembroke 4/9/2010
20. Epode 4/9/2010
21. Evening: Barents Sea 4/9/2010
22. For A Girl In A Book 4/9/2010
23. From........Witches' Song 4/9/2010
24. Gypsy Songs 12/26/2014
25. Have You Seen But A Bright Lily Grow 4/9/2010
26. His Excuse For Loving 1/20/2003
27. His Supposed Mistress 3/7/2012
28. Hymn To The Belly 3/20/2015
29. I: Why I Write Not To Love 4/9/2010
30. Iii: To Sir Robert Wroth 4/9/2010
31. In The Ember Days Of My Last Free Summer 4/9/2010
32. In The Person Of Womankind 4/9/2010
33. Inviting A Friend To Supper 4/9/2010
34. Iv: To The World 4/9/2010
35. Ix: Song: To Celia 4/9/2010
36. Living By 4/9/2010
37. Love-All 4/9/2010
38. My Picture Left In Scotland 1/20/2003
39. Natural Progress 4/9/2010
40. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 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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