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Ben Jonson
1572-1637
Ben Jonson is the earliest English writer who is routinely called by a nickname, a familiarity that seems justified by Jonson's vigor, charm, and good humor. He was a successful playwright, producing tragedies as well as comedies; a translator, conversationalist, and critic of great learning and distinction; and above all, a lyric poet whose grace and energy are the equal of his best classical precursors.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but of thee.
Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
--From The Silent Woman
Robert Herrick called Jonson "Saint Ben," helped himself to parts of this marvelous song from one of Jonson's plays. The "sweet" and "neglect" are used also in Herrick's "Deilght in Disorder" and "taketh" (was ever a mot more juste?) also graces Herrick's "Upon Julia's Clothes"
See the Chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws is a swan or a dove,
And well the car Love guideth
As she goes, all hearts do duty
Unto her beauty;
And enamour'd do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Thorough swords, thorough seas, whither she would ride.
Do but look on her eyes, they do light
All that Love's world compriseth!
Do but look on her hair, it is bright
As Love's star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that soothe her;
And from her arch'd brows such grace
Sheds itself through the face,
As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
Have you seen but a bright lily grow
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver,
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelt of the bud of the brier,
Or the nard in the fire?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!
--from A Celebration of Charis in Ten Lyric Pieces--The
phrase "or swan's down ever" occurs also at the end of Ezra Pound's Pian Cantos.
This "triumph" is the fourth part of Jonson's "Celebration of Charis in Ten
Lyric Pieces." No person has been identified as the original of "Charis," whose
name means "grace." (Note that: "whether" is "whithersoever"; "nard" is
"spikenard," an aromatic plant.)
©2004 B.J. Carper, All Rights Reserved
P.O. Box 125
Hudson, Indiana 46747
E-mail: ragdoll@bajeca.com
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