And though they sweep their hearths no less Than maids were wont to do, Yet who of late, for cleanliness, Lament, lament, old Abbeys, The fairies' lost command; They did but change priests' babies, Who live as changelings ever since, For love of your domains. At morning and at evening both, So little care of sleep or sloth These pretty ladies had; When Tom came home from labour, Or Cis to milking rose, Then merrily went their tabor, And nimbly went their toes. Witness those rings and roundelays On many a grassy plain; And later, James came in, They never danc'd on any heath As when the time hath been. By which we note the fairies Or else they take their ease. A tell-tale in their company Their mirth, was punish'd sure; BY BEN JONSON. Un For [BEN JONSON was born in Westminster, in 1574, a month after his father's death. He passed his early days at Westminster School, and was then put to the trade of a bricklayer; but, disliking that business, he ran away, and joined the army. After his return from Flanders, where he served, he went to the University of Cambridge, but was soon compelled by poverty to leave it, and go on the stage. happily he killed a brother actor in a duel, for which he narrowly escaped being hanged; while in prison he became a convert to the Roman Catholic religion, in which he remained for some years. the rest of his life he continued to write plays, and having had a share in "Eastward Ho," which was supposed to reflect on the Scotch, he was again sent to prison in the reign of James I.; when he obtained his liberty, he flattered that weak prince, and became his favourite. Charles I. gave him a pension, but his extravagant habits always kept him poor. He died in 1637, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. A convivial associate induced a stone cutter who was erecting a monument in Poet's Corner to him, to inscribe on it the now memorable epitaph, "O rare Ben Jonson ;" and he well deserved it.] 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, As giving it a hope, that there It could not wither'd 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 thee. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. BEN JONSON. UNDERNEATH this sable hearse "SEE THE CHARIOT AT HAND." BEN JONSON. SEE the chariot at hand here of love, Wherein my lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, 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, 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, she is bright T |