Ben Jonson

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

Ben Jonson Poems

41. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 4/9/2010
42. Occupation: Father 4/9/2010
43. Ode 4/9/2010
44. Ode To Sir William Sydney, On His Birthday 4/9/2010
45. Ode Upon The Censure Of His New Inn 4/9/2010
46. Of Life And Death 4/9/2010
47. On A Robbery 3/7/2012
48. On Don Surly 4/9/2010
49. On Elizabeth L. H. 4/9/2010
50. On Giles And Joan 4/9/2010
51. On Lucy, Countess Of Bedford 4/9/2010
52. On My First Daughter 4/9/2010
53. On My First Son 1/20/2003
54. On Poet-Ape 3/7/2012
55. On Salathiel Pavy 4/9/2010
56. On Something, That Walks Somewhere 4/9/2010
57. Opening Doors 4/9/2010
58. Porth Ceiriad Bay 4/9/2010
59. Praeludium 4/9/2010
60. Preconception 4/9/2010
61. Queen And Huntress 4/9/2010
62. Simplex Munditiis 4/9/2010
63. So Breaks The Sun 4/9/2010
64. Song From The Silent Woman 4/9/2010
65. Song To Celia - I 4/9/2010
66. Song To Celia Ii 4/9/2010
67. Song To Diana 4/9/2010
68. Song: From Cynthia's Revels 4/9/2010
69. Song: To Cynthia 4/9/2010
70. Still To Be Neat 11/21/2014
71. That Women Are But Men's Shadows 4/9/2010
72. The Alchemist 4/9/2010
73. The Alchemist: Prologue 4/9/2010
74. The Hourglass 3/7/2012
75. The Metamorphosed Gypsies (Excerpt) 4/9/2010
76. The New Cry 4/9/2010
77. The Noble Balm 4/9/2010
78. The Noble Nature 4/9/2010
79. The Short Fear 4/9/2010
80. The Speech 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

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

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