Ode
to Himself
by Ben
Jonson
|
Where dost thou careless
lie, |
Buried in ease
and sloth? |
Knowledge that sleeps doth
die; |
And this security, |
It is the
common moth, |
That eats on wits, and arts and
oft destroys them both.
|
Are all the Aonian springs |
Dried up? lies
Thespia waste? |
Doth Clarius' harp want
strings, |
That not a nymph now
sings? |
Or droop they
as disgraced, |
To see their seats and bowers by
chattering pies defaced?
|
If hence thy silence be, |
As 'tis too
just a cause, |
Let this thought quicken
thee: |
Minds that are great and
free |
Should not on
fortune pause, |
'Tis crown enough to virtue
still, her own applause.
|
What though the greedy fry |
Be taken with
false baits |
Of worded balladry |
And thinks it poesy? |
They die with
their conceits, |
And only piteous scorn upon their
folly waits.
|
Then take in hand thy
lyre, |
Strike in thy
proper strain; |
With Japhet's line, aspire |
Sol's chariot for new
fire, |
To give the
world again: |
Who aided him will thee, the
issue of Jove's brain.
|
And since our dainty age |
Cannot endure
reproof, |
Make not thyself a page |
To that strumpet the
Stage, |
But sing high
and aloof, |
Safe from the wolf's black jaw,
and the dull ass's hoof.
|
Ben Jonson | Classic
Poems
|
|
[ Ode to Himself ] [ To Celia ] |