Ben Jonson

(11 June 1572 – 6 August 1637 / London / England)

Ben Jonson Poems

1. Hymn To The Belly 3/20/2015
2. Gypsy Songs 12/26/2014
3. To Censorious Courtling 3/7/2012
4. To Doctor Empiric 3/7/2012
5. To Francis Beaumont 4/9/2010
6. Still To Be Neat 11/21/2014
7. To Fine Lady Would-Be 3/7/2012
8. His Supposed Mistress 3/7/2012
9. The Noble Balm 4/9/2010
10. On A Robbery 3/7/2012
11. Xi: Epode 4/9/2010
12. Nine Stages Towards Knowing 4/9/2010
13. On Elizabeth L. H. 4/9/2010
14. The Speech 4/9/2010
15. Song: From Cynthia's Revels 4/9/2010
16. A Hymn On The Nativity Of My Saviour 3/7/2012
17. The Thames At Mortlake 4/9/2010
18. The Triumph Of Charis 4/9/2010
19. Vii: Song: That Women Are But Mens Shaddows 4/9/2010
20. In The Ember Days Of My Last Free Summer 4/9/2010
21. Viii: Song: To Sicknesse 4/9/2010
22. The Alchemist: Prologue 4/9/2010
23. The Metamorphosed Gypsies (Excerpt) 4/9/2010
24. X: And Must I Sing? 4/9/2010
25. On Poet-Ape 3/7/2012
26. On Salathiel Pavy 4/9/2010
27. Simplex Munditiis 4/9/2010
28. Venus' Runaway 4/9/2010
29. Xiii: Epistle: To Katherine, Lady Aubigny 4/9/2010
30. To The Reader 4/9/2010
31. So Breaks The Sun 4/9/2010
32. To The Immortal Memory And Friendship Of That Noble Pair, Sir Lucius Cary And Sir H. Morison 4/9/2010
33. Praeludium 4/9/2010
34. Iii: To Sir Robert Wroth 4/9/2010
35. A Nymph’s Passion 3/7/2012
36. Xii: Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland 4/9/2010
37. Living By 4/9/2010
38. Occupation: Father 4/9/2010
39. Song: To Cynthia 4/9/2010
40. Evening: Barents Sea 4/9/2010
Best Poem of Ben Jonson

On My First Son

Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou'wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father now! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age?
Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

Read the full of On My First Son

To Celia

Drinke to me, onely, with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kisse but in the cup,
And Ile not looke for wine.
The thirst, that from the soule doth rise,
Doth aske a drinke divine:
But might I of Jove's Nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath,

[Hata Bildir]