Ben Jonson

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

Ben Jonson Poems

41. Song To Celia - I 4/9/2010
42. Song From The Silent Woman 4/9/2010
43. So Breaks The Sun 4/9/2010
44. Simplex Munditiis 4/9/2010
45. Queen And Huntress 4/9/2010
46. Preconception 4/9/2010
47. Praeludium 4/9/2010
48. Porth Ceiriad Bay 4/9/2010
49. Opening Doors 4/9/2010
50. On Something, That Walks Somewhere 4/9/2010
51. On Salathiel Pavy 4/9/2010
52. On Poet-Ape 3/7/2012
53. On My First Son 1/20/2003
54. On My First Daughter 4/9/2010
55. On Lucy, Countess Of Bedford 4/9/2010
56. On Giles And Joan 4/9/2010
57. On Elizabeth L. H. 4/9/2010
58. On Don Surly 4/9/2010
59. On A Robbery 3/7/2012
60. Of Life And Death 4/9/2010
61. Ode Upon The Censure Of His New Inn 4/9/2010
62. Ode To Sir William Sydney, On His Birthday 4/9/2010
63. Ode 4/9/2010
64. Occupation: Father 4/9/2010
65. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 4/9/2010
66. Natural Progress 4/9/2010
67. My Picture Left In Scotland 1/20/2003
68. Love-All 4/9/2010
69. Living By 4/9/2010
70. Ix: Song: To Celia 4/9/2010
71. Iv: To The World 4/9/2010
72. Inviting A Friend To Supper 4/9/2010
73. In The Person Of Womankind 4/9/2010
74. In The Ember Days Of My Last Free Summer 4/9/2010
75. Iii: To Sir Robert Wroth 4/9/2010
76. I: Why I Write Not To Love 4/9/2010
77. Hymn To The Belly 3/20/2015
78. His Supposed Mistress 3/7/2012
79. His Excuse For Loving 1/20/2003
80. Have You Seen But A Bright Lily Grow 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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