The Underwood
Jonson, Ben
The Underwood
Ben Jonson
The Underwood
To the Reader
With the same leave, the ancients called that kind of body sylva, or Ylh, in which there were works of diverse nature and matter congested, as the multitude call timber-trees, promiscuously growing, a wood or forest; so am I bold to entitle these lesser poems of later growth by this of Underwood, out of the analogy they hold to The Forest in my former book, and no otherwise.
Ben Jonson
Martial ––
Cineri, gloria sera venit.
Poems of Devotion
The Sinner's Sacrifice to the Holy Trinity
1. O holy, blessed, glorious Trinity
Of persons, still one God in unity,
The faithful man's believed mystery,
Help, help to lift
2. Myself up to thee, harrowed, torn, and bruised
By sin and Satan; and my flesh misused,
As my heart lies in pieces, all confused,
Oh, take my gift.
3. All-gracious God, the sinner's sacrifice,
A broken heart thou wert not wont despise,
But 'bove the fat of rams, or bulls, to prize
An offering meet
4. For thy acceptance. Oh, behold me right,
And take compassion on my grievous plight.
What odour can be, than a heart contrite,
To thee more sweet?
5. Eternal Father, God who didst create
This all of nothing, gavest it form and fate,
And breath'st into it life and light, with state
To worship thee;
6. Eternal God the Son, who not denied'st
To take our nature, becam'st man, and died'st
To pay our debts, upon thy cross, and cried'st
All's done in me;
7. Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding,
Father and Son, the comforter in breeding
Pure thoughts in man; with fiery zeal them feeding
For acts of grace:
8. Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity
Of persons, still one God in unity,
Till I attain the longed-for mystery
Of seeing your face,
9. Beholding one in three, and three in one,
A Trinity, to shine in union;
The gladdest light dark man can think upon,
O grant it me!
10. Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost, you three
All coeternal in your majesty,
Distinct in persons, yet in unity
One God to see,
11. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier,
To hear, to meditate, sweeten my desire
With grace, with love, with cherishing entire;
O, then how blessed,
12. Among thy saints elected to abide,
And with thy angels placed side by side,
But in thy presence truly glorified,
Shall I there rest!
1. A Hymn to God the Father
Hear me, O God!
A broken heart
Is my best part;
Use still thy rod,
That I may prove
Therein thy love.
If thou hadst not
Been stern to me,
But left me free,
I had forgot
Myself and thee.
For sin's so sweet,
As minds ill bent
Rarely repent,
Until they meet
Their punishment.
Who more can crave
Than thou hast done?
That gav'st a Son,
To free a slave,
First made of nought;
With all since bought.
Sin, death, and hell
His glorious name
Quite overcame,
Yet I rebel,
And slight the same.
But I'll come in,
Before my loss
Me farther toss,
As sure to win
Under his cross.
1. A Hymn
On the Nativity of My Saviour
I sing the birth was born tonight,
The author both of life and light;
The angels so did sound it,
And like, the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.
The Son of God, the Eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,
And freed the soul from danger;
He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which heaven and earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.
The Father's wisdom willed it so,
The Son's obedience knew no No,
Both wills were in one stature;
And as that wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made flesh indeed,
And took on him our nature.
What comfort by him do we win,
Who made himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of glory!
To see the babe, all innocence,
A martyr born in our defence,
Can man forget this story?
A Celebration of Charis in Ten Lyric Pieces
1. 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;
But the language, and the truth,
With the ardour and the passion,
Gives the lover weight and fashion.
If you will then read the story,
First prepare you to be sorry
That you never knew till now
Either whom to love, or how;
But be glad as soon with me,
When you know that this is she,
Of whose beauty it was sung,
She shall make the old man young,
Keep the middle age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why
All the world for love may die.
2. How He Saw Her
I beheld her, on a day,
When her look out-flourished May,
And her dressing did outbrave
All the pride the fields then have;
Far I was from being stupid,
For I ran and called on Cupid:
Love, if thou wilt ever see
Mark of glory, come with me.
Where's thy quiver? Bend thy bow!
Here's a shaft – thou art too slow!
And (withal) I did untie
Every cloud about his eye;
But he had not gained his sight
Sooner than he lost his might
Or his courage; for away
Straight he ran, and durst not stay,
Letting bow and arrow fall,
Nor for any threat or call
Could be brought once back to look.
I, foolhardy, there up-took
Both the arrow he had quit
And the bow, with thought to hit
This my object. But she threw
Such a lightning, as I drew,
At my face, that took my sight
And my motion from me quite;
So that there I stood a stone,
Mocked of all, and called of one
(Which with grief and wrath I heard)
Cupid's statue with a beard,
Or else one that played his ape
In a Hercules's shape.
3. What He Suffered
After many scorns like these,
Which the prouder beauties please,
She content was to restore
Eyes and limbs, to hurt me more.
And would, on conditions, be
Reconciled to Love and me.
First, that I must kneeling yield
Both the bow and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her hand, with oath, to make
Me the scope of his next draught,
Aimed with that self-same shaft.
He no sooner heard the law,
But the arrow home did draw,
And, to gain her by his art,
Left it sticking in my heart;
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would fain have changed the fate,
But the pity comes too late.
Loser-like, now, all my wreak
Is that I have leave to speak,
And in either prose, or song,
To revenge me with my tongue;
Which how dexterously I do,
Hear, and make example too.
4. Her Triumph
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 enamoured, do wish, so they might
But enjoy such a sight,
That they still were to run by her side,
Through swords, through 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 arched brows, such a 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 touched it?
Have you marked but the fall o' the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it?
Have you felt the wool o' the beaver?
Or swan's down ever?
Or have smelled o' the bud o' the briar?
Or the nard i' the fire?
Or have tasted the bag o' the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!
5. His Discourse with Cupid
Noblest Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my star!
And do govern more my blood
Than the various moon the flood!
Hear what late discourse of you
Love and I have had, and true.
'Mongst my muses finding me,
Where he chanced your name to see
Set, and to this softer strain:
Sure, said he, if I have brain,
This, here sung, can be no other
By description but my mother!
So hath Homer praised her hair,
So Anacreon drawn the air
Of her face, and made to rise,
Just above her sparkling eyes,
Both her brows, bent like my bow.
By her looks I do her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheeks, of milk and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in!
And, above her even chin,
Have you placed the bank of kisses,
Where, you say, men gather blisses,
Ripened with a breath more sweet,
Than when flowers and west winds meet.
Nay, her white and polished neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! Hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a chain!
And between each rising breast
Lies the valley called my nest,
Where I sit and proyne my wings
After flight, and put new stings
To my shafts! Her very name
With my mother's is the same.
I confess all, I replied,
And the glass hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waist:
All is Venus, save unchaste.
But alas, thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her sex; but could'st thou, Love,
Call to mind the forms that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more than thou hast spied.
Outward grace weak love beguiles;
She is Venus, when she smiles,
But she's Juno, when she walks,
And Minerva, when she talks.
6. Claiming a Second Kiss by Desert
Charis, guess, and do not miss,
Since I drew a morning kiss
From your lips, and sucked an air
Thence as sweet as you are fair,
What my muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost, or won,
If by us the odds were laid
That the bride, allowed a maid,
Looked not half so fresh and fair,
With the advantage of her hair
And her jewels, to the view
Of the assembly, as did you!
Or, that did you sit, or walk,
You were more the eye and talk
Of the court, today, than all
Else that glistered in Whitehall;
So as those that had your sight
Wished the bride were changed tonight,
And did think such rites were due
To no other grace but you!
Or, if you did move tonight
In the dances, with what spite
Of your peers you were beheld,
That at every motion swelled
So to see a lady tread,
As might all the graces lead,
And was worthy, being so seen,
To be envied of the queen.
Or if you would yet have stayed,
Whether any would upbraid
To himself his loss of time,
Or have charged his sight of crime
To have left all sight for you.
Guess of these which is the true:
And if such a verse as this
May not claim another kiss.
7. Begging Another, on Colour of Mending the Former
For Love's sake, kiss me once again,
I long, and should not beg in vain,
Here's none to spy, or see:
Why do you doubt, or stay?
I'll taste as lightly as the bee,
That doth but touch his flower, and flies away.
Once more, and (faith) I will be gone;
Can he that loves ask less than one?
Nay, you may err in this,
And all your bounty wrong:
This could be called but half a kiss.
What we are but once to do, we should do long.
I will but mend the last, and tell
Where, how, it would have relished well;
Join lip to lip, and try;
Each suck the other's breath.
And whilst our tongues perplexed lie,
Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.
8. Urging Her of a Promise
Charis one day in discourse
Had of Love and of his force,
Lightly promised she would tell
What a man she could love well;
And that promise set on fire
All that heard her, with desire.
With the rest I long expected
When the work would be effected;
But we find that cold delay
And excuse spun every day,
As, until she tell her one,
We all fear she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do it,
For I will so urge you to it,
You shall neither eat, nor sleep,
No, nor forth your window peep
With your emissary eye
To fetch in the forms go by,
And pronounce which band or lace
Better fits him than his face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your idol glass a whit,
To say over every purl
There or to reform a curl;
Or with secretary Cis
To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last:
All your sweet of life is past,
Make accompt, unless you can
(And that quickly) speak your man.
9. Her Man Described by Her Own Dictamen
Of your trouble, Ben, to ease me,
I will tell what man would please me.
I would have him, if I could,
Noble, or of greater blood;
Titles, I confess, do take me,
And a woman God did make me;
French to boot, at least in fashion,
And his manners of that nation.
Young I'd have him too, and fair,
Yet a man; with crisped hair
Cast in thousand snares and rings
For Love's fingers and his wings:
Chestnut colour, or more slack
Gold, upon a ground of black.
Venus' and Minerva's eyes,
For he must look wanton-wise.
Eyebrows bent like Cupid's bow,
Front an ample field of snow;
Even nose, and cheek (withal)
Smooth as is the billiard ball;
Chin as woolly as the peach,
And his lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherished too much beard,
And make Love or me afeared.
He would have a hand as soft
As the down, and show it oft;
Skin as smooth as any rush,
And so thin to see a blush
Rising through it ere it came;
All his blood should be a flame
Quickly fired as in beginners
In Love's school, and yet no sinners.
'Twere too long to speak of all;
What we harmony do call
In a body should be there.
Well he should his clothes, too, wear,
Yet no tailor help to make him;
Dressed, you still for man should take him,
And not think he'd ate a stake
Or were set up in a brake.
Valiant he should be as fire,
Showing danger more than ire.
Bounteous as the clouds to earth,
And as honest as his birth.
All his actions to be such,
As to do no thing too much.
Nor o'erpraise, nor yet condemn,
Nor out-value, nor contemn;
Nor do wrongs, nor wrongs receive;
Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave;
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love truth and me.
Such a man, with every part,
I could give my very heart;
But of one, if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.
10. Another Lady's Exception, Present at the Hearing
For his mind I do not care,
That's a toy that I could spare;
Let his title be but great,
His clothes rich, and band sit neat,
Himself young, and face be good,
All I wish is understood.
What you please you parts may call,
'Tis one good part I'd lie withal.
The Musical Strife; in a Pastoral Dialogue
She
Come, with our voices let us war,
And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star
And all the world turn ears.
He
At such a call what beast or fowl
Of reason empty is?
What tree or stone doth want a soul?
What man but must lose his?
She
Mix then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods,
To make the mountain quarries move,
And call the walking woods.
He
What need of me? Do you but sing,
Sleep and the grave will wake;
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips do make.
She
They say the angels mark each deed
And exercise below,
And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.
He
O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall again, at such a feast
Mistaking earth for heaven.
She
Nay, rather both our souls be strained
To meet their high desire;
So they in state of grace retained
May wish us of their choir.
A Song
Oh, do not wanton with those eyes
Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.
Oh, be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me;
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.
Oh, do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me;
Nor spread them as distract with fears,
Mine own enough betray me.
In the Person of Womankind
A Song Apologetic
Men, if you love us, play no more
The fools or tyrants with your friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er
Our own false praises, for your ends;
We have both wits and fancies too,
And if we must, let's sing of you.
Nor do we doubt but that we can,
If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good in some one man;
So going thorough all your strain
We shall, at last, of parcels make
One good enough for a song's sake.
And as a cunning painter takes
In any curious piece you see
More pleasure while the thing he makes
Than when 'tis made, why so will we.
And having pleased our art, we'll try
To make a new, and hang that by.
Another: in Defence of Their Inconstancy
A Song
Hang up those dull and envious fools
That talk abroad of woman's change,
We were not bred to sit on stools,
Our proper virtue is to range;
Take that away, you take our lives,
We are no women then, but wives.
Such as in valour would excel
Do change, though man, and often fight,
Which we in love must do as well,
If ever we will love aright.
The frequent varying of the deed
Is that which doth perfection breed.
Nor is't inconstancy to change
For what is better, or to make,
By searching, what before was strange
Familiar, for the use's sake;
The good from bad is not descried
But as 'tis often vexed and tried.
And this profession of a store
In love, doth not alone help forth
Our pleasure, but preserves us more
From being forsaken than doth worth;
For were the worthiest woman cursed
To love one man, he'd leave her first.
A Nymph's Passion
I love and he loves me again,
Yet dare I not tell who;
For if the nymphs should know my swain,
I fear they'd love him too;
Yet if it be not known
The pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow joy is but our own.
I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envy me;
But then if I grow jealous mad
And of them pitied be,
It were a plague 'bove scorn;
And yet it cannot be forborne,
Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.
He is, if they can find him, fair,
And fresh and fragrant too
As summer's sky or purged air,
And looks as lilies do
That were this morning blown;
Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more that more of him be shown.
But he hath eyes so round and bright
As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his torches light
Though hate had put them out;
But then, to increase my fears,
What nymph soe'er his voice but hears
Will be my rival, though she have but ears.
I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
From either heart, I know;
But so exempt from blame,
As it would be to each a fame,
If love, or fear, would let me tell his name.
The Hour-Glass
Do but consider this small dust
Here running in the glass,
By atoms moved:
Could you believe that this
The body ever was
Of one that loved?
And in his mistress' flame, playing like a fly,
Turned to cinders by her eye?
Yes; and in death, as life, unblessed,
To have 't expressed,
Even ashes of lovers find no rest.
My Picture Left in Scotland
I now think Love is rather deaf than blind,
For else it could not be
That she
Whom I adore so much should so slight me,
And cast my love behind;
I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet
In sentence of as subtle feet,
As hath the youngest he
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.
Oh, but my conscious fears
That fly my thoughts between,
Tell me that she hath seen
My hundred of grey hairs,
Told seven-and-forty years,
Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
My mountain belly, and my rocky face;
And all these through her eyes have stopped her ears.
Against Jealousy
Wretched and foolish jealousy
How cam'st thou thus to enter me?
I ne'er was of thy kind,
Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poor desire
That others should not warm them at my fire;
I wish the sun should shine
On all men's fruit and flowers, as well as mine.
But under the disguise of love
Thou say'st thou only cam'st to prove
What my affections were.
Think'st thou that love is helped by fear?
Go, get thee quickly forth,
Love's sickness and his noted want of worth,
Seek doubting men to please;
I ne'er will owe my health to a disease.
The Dream
Or scorn, or pity on me take,
I must the true relation make:
I am undone tonight;
Love in a subtle dream disguised
Hath both my heart and me surprised,
Whom never yet he durst attempt awake;
Nor will he tell me for whose sake
He did me the delight,
Or spite,
But leaves me to inquire,
In all my wild desire
Of sleep again, who was his aid;
And sleep so guilty and afraid
As, since, he dares not come within my sight.
An Epitaph on Master Vincent Corbett
I have my piety too, which could
It vent itself but as it would,
Would say as much as both have done
Before me here, the friend and son;
For I both lost a friend and father,
Of him whose bones this grave doth gather:
Dear Vincent Corbett, who so long
Had wrestled with diseases strong
That though they did possess each limb,
Yet he broke them, ere they could him,
With the just canon of his life;
A life that knew nor noise nor strife,
But was, by sweetening so his will,
All order and disposure still.
His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his nurseries, and swept
So of uncleanness or offence,
That never came ill odour thence;
And add his actions unto these,
They were as specious as his trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend;
His very manners taught to amend,
They were so even, grave, and holy;
No stubbornness so stiff, nor folly
To licence ever was so light
As twice to trespass in his sight;
His looks would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet not the men.
Much from him I profess I won,
And more and more I should have done,
But that I understood him scant.
Now I conceive him by my want,
And pray, who shall my sorrows read,
That they for me their tears will shed;
For truly, since he left to be,
I feel I'm rather dead than he!
Reader, whose life and name did e'er become
An epitaph, deserved a tomb;
Nor wants it here, through penury or sloth;
Who makes the one, so it be first, makes both.
An Epistle to Sir Edward Sackville, now Earl of Dorset
If, Sackville, all that have the power to do
Great and good turns, as well could time them too,
And knew their how and where, we should have then
Less list of proud, hard, or ungrateful men.
For benefits are owed with the same mind
As they are done, and such returns they find.
You then whose will not only, but desire
To succour my necessities took fire,
Not at my prayers, but your sense, which laid
The way to meet what others would upbraid,
And in the act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feel it done as soon as meant;
You cannot doubt but I, who freely know
This good from you, as freely will it owe.
And though my fortune humble me to take
The smallest courtesies with thanks, I make
Yet choice from whom I take them, and would shame
To have such do me good I durst not name.
They are the noblest benefits, and sink
Deepest in man, of which, when he doth think,
The memory delights him more from whom
Than what he hath received. Gifts stink from some,
They are so long a-coming, and so hard;
Where any deed is forced, the grace is marred.
Can I owe thanks for courtesies received
Against his will that does 'em; that hath weaved
Excuses or delays; or done 'em scant,
That they have more oppressed me than my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me
But by mere chance, for interest, or to free
Himself of farther trouble, or the weight
Of pressure, like one taken in a strait?
All this corrupts the thanks; less hath he won
That puts it in his debt-book ere it be done;
Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call
His grooms to witness; or else lets it fall
In that proud manner, as a good so gained
Must make me sad for what I have obtained.
No! Gifts and thanks should have one cheerful face,
So each that's done and ta'en becomes a brace.
He neither gives, nor does, that doth delay
A benefit, or that doth throw it away;
No more than he doth thank that will receive
Nought but in corners, and is loath to leave
Least air or print, but flies it: such men would
Run from the conscience of it, if they could.
As I have seen some infants of the sword,
Well known and practised borrowers on their word,
Give thanks by stealth, and whispering in the ear,
For what they straight would to the world forswear;
And speaking worst of those from whom they went
But then, fist-filled, to put me off the scent:
Now, damn me, sir, if you should not command
My sword ('tis but a poor sword, understand)
As far as any poor sword in the land.
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Damns whom he damned to, as the veriest gull
Has feathers, and will serve a man to pull.
Are they not worthy to be answered so,
That to such natures let their full hands flow,
And seek not wants to succour, but enquire,
Like money-brokers, after names, and hire
Their bounties forth to him that last was made,
Or stands to be, in commission of the blade?
Still, still the hunters of false fame apply
Their thoughts and means to making loud the cry;
But one is bitten by the dog he fed,
And, hurt, seeks cure: the surgeon bids take bread
And sponge-like with it dry up the blood quite,
Then give it to the hound that did him bite.
Pardon, says he, that were a way to see
All the town curs take each their snatch at me.
Oh, is it so? Knows he so much? And will
Feed those at whom the table points at still?
I not deny it, but to help the need
Of any is a great and generous deed:
Yea, of the ungrateful; and he forth must tell
Many a pound and piece, will place one well.
But these men ever want: their very trade
Is borrowing; that but stopped, they do invade
All as their prize, turn pirates here at land,
Have their Bermudas, and their straits i' the Strand;
Man out their boats to the Temple; and not shift
Now, but command, make tribute what was gift;
And it is paid 'em with a trembling zeal,
And superstition I dare scarce reveal
If it were clear; but being so in cloud
Carried and wrapped, I only am allowed
My wonder why the taking a clown's purse,
Or robbing the poor market-folks should nurse
Such a religious horror in the breasts
Of our town gallantry! Or why there rests
Such worship due to kicking of a punk,
Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer, drunk,
Or feats of darkness acted in mid-sun,
And told of with more licence than they were done!
Sure there is mystery in it I not know,
That men such reverence to such actions show!
And almost deify the authors: make
Loud sacrifice of drink for their health's sake,
Rere-suppers in their names, and spend whole nights
Unto their praise in certain swearing rites!
Cannot a man be reckoned in the state
Of valour, but at this idolatrous rate?
I thought that fortitude had been a mean
'Twixt fear and rashness; not a lust obscene,
Or appetite of offending, but a skill
Or science of discerning good and ill.
And you, sir, know it well, to whom I write,
That with these mixtures we put out her light.
Her ends are honesty and public good,
And where they want, she is not understood.
No more are these of us, let them then go;
I have the list of mine own faults to know,
Look to, and cure. He's not a man hath none,
But like to be, that every day mends one
And feels it; else he tarries by the beast.
Can I discern how shadows are decreased
Or grown, by height or lowness of the sun,
And can I less of substance? When I run,
Ride, sail, am coached, know I how far I have gone,
And my mind's motion not? Or have I none?
No! he must feel and know that will advance.
Men have been great, but never good, by chance
Or on the sudden.
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