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 ]

 

 


 

 

 
 
 
 

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