Ben Jonson

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

Ben Jonson Poems

1. Hymn To The Belly 3/20/2015
2. Third Charm from Masque of Queens 11/23/2015
3. Gypsy Songs 12/26/2014
4. To Censorious Courtling 3/7/2012
5. On Poet-Ape 3/7/2012
6. Still To Be Neat 11/21/2014
7. To Doctor Empiric 3/7/2012
8. To Francis Beaumont 4/9/2010
9. The Noble Balm 4/9/2010
10. On A Robbery 3/7/2012
11. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 4/9/2010
12. On Elizabeth L. H. 4/9/2010
13. Song: From Cynthia's Revels 4/9/2010
14. Praeludium 4/9/2010
15. His Supposed Mistress 3/7/2012
16. Porth Ceiriad Bay 4/9/2010
17. Song: To Cynthia 4/9/2010
18. The Alchemist: Prologue 4/9/2010
19. On Don Surly 4/9/2010
20. Iv: To The World 4/9/2010
21. On Salathiel Pavy 4/9/2010
22. Simplex Munditiis 4/9/2010
23. Xiii: Epistle: To Katherine, Lady Aubigny 4/9/2010
24. Xi: Epode 4/9/2010
25. Song From The Silent Woman 4/9/2010
26. Ode Upon The Censure Of His New Inn 4/9/2010
27. Iii: To Sir Robert Wroth 4/9/2010
28. A Nymph’s Passion 3/7/2012
29. Living By 4/9/2010
30. On Giles And Joan 4/9/2010
31. To Fine Lady Would-Be 3/7/2012
32. The Thames At Mortlake 4/9/2010
33. The Triumph Of Charis 4/9/2010
34. In The Ember Days Of My Last Free Summer 4/9/2010
35. Evening: Barents Sea 4/9/2010
36. Song To Diana 4/9/2010
37. Ode 4/9/2010
38. Viii: Song: To Sicknesse 4/9/2010
39. The Alchemist 4/9/2010
40. Epitaph On The Countess Of Pembroke 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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