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POEMS

OF

BEN JONSON.

UNDER-WOODS.

CONSISTING OF DIVERS POEMS.

TO THE READER.

WITH the same leave the ancients called that kind of body Sylva, or Ύλη, in which there were workes of divers nature, and matter congested; as the multitude call timbertrees, promiscuously growing, a wood or forrest: so am I bold to entitle these lesser poems, of later growth, by this of Under-wood, out of the analogie they hold to the Forrest, in my former booke, and no otherwise.

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1

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And like the ravish'd sheep'erds said,

Who saw the light, and were afraid,

Yet search'd, and true they found it.

The Sonne of God, th' Eternall King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soule from danger;
Hee whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisedome will'd it so,

The Sonne's obedience knew no no,

Both wills were in one stature;

And as that wisedome had decreed,

The Word was now made flesh indeed,

And tooke on him our nature.

What comfort by him doe wee winne?

Who made himselfe the price of sinne,

To make us heires of glory?

To see this babe all innocence;

A martyr borne in our defence;

Can man forget this storie?

A

CELEBRATION OF CHARIS,

IN TEN LYRICK PEECES.

I. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING.

LET it not your wonder move, Lesse your laughter, that I love. Though I now write fiftie yeares, I have had, and have my peeres; Poets, though devine, are men: Some have lov'd as old agen. And it is not alwayes 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 then will read the storie, First, prepare you to be sorie, That you never knew till now, Either whom to love, or how: But be glad, as soone with me, When you know, that this is she, Of whose beautie it was sung, She shall make the old man young, Keepe the middle age at stay, And let nothing high decay, Till she be the reason why, All the world for love may die.

II. HOW HE SAW HER.

I BEHELD her on a day When her looke out-flourisht May: And her dressing did out-brave All the pride the fields then have:

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Marke of glorie, come with me;
Where's thy quiver? bend thy bow:
Here's a shaft, thou art too slow!"

And (withall) I did untie

Every cloud about his eye;
But he had not gain'd his sight
Sooner, then he lost his might,
Or his courage; for away
Strait hee ran, and durst not stay,
Letting bow and arrow fall;
Nor for any threat, or call,
Could be brought once back to looke.
I, foole-hardie, there up tooke
Both the arrow he had quit,
And the bow, which thought to hit
This my object. But she threw
Such a lightning (as I drew)
At my face, that tooke my sight,
And my motion from me quite;
So that there I stood a stone,
Mock'd of all: and cali'd of one
(Which with griefe and wrath I heard)
Cupid's statue with a beard,
Or else one that plaid his ape,
In a Hercules his shape.

That they still were to run by her side, ride. Through swords, through seas, whether she would

Doe but looke on her eyes, they doe light

All that Love's world compriseth! Doe but looke on her haire, it is bright As Love's starre when it riseth !

Doe but marke, her forhead's smoother

Then words that sooth her!

And from her arched browes, such a grace

Sheds it selfe through the face,

As alone there triumphs to the life
All the gaine, all the good, of the elements' strife.

Have you seene but a bright lillie grow,
Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the snow
Before the soyle hath smutch'd it?

Ha' you felt the wooll of bever?

Or swan's downe ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard in the fire ?
Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

III. WHAT HEE SUFFERED.

AFTER many scornes like these,
Which the prouder beauties please,
She content was to restore

Eyes and limbes; to hurt me more :
And would, on conditions, be
Reconcil'd to love and me:
First, that I must kneeling yeeld
Both the bow and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her hand, with oath, to make
Mee the scope of his next draught,
Aymed with that selfe-same shaft.
He no sooner heard the law,
But the arrow home did draw,
And (to gaine her by his art)
Left it sticking in my heart:
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would faine have chang'd the fate,
But the pittie comes too late.
Looser-like, now, all my wreake
Is, that I have leave to speake,
And in either prose, or song,
To revenge me with my tongue,
Which how dexterously I doe,
Heare and make example too.

IV. HER TRIUMPΗ.

SEE the chariot at hand here of Love,
Wherein my lady rideth!
Each that drawes is a swan, or a dove,
And well the carre Love guideth.
As she goes, all hearts do duty

Unto her beauty;
And, enamour'd, doe wish so they might
But enjoy such a sight,

V. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID,

NOBLEST Charis, you that are
Both my fortune and my starre!
And doe governe more my blood,
Then the various Moone the flood!
Heare, what late discourse of you,
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc't your name to see
Set, and to this softer straine;
"Sure," said he, " if I have braine,
This here sung can be no other,
By description, but my mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her haire;
So Anacreon drawne the ayre
Of her face, and made to rise,
Just about her sparkling eyes,
Both her browes, bent like my bow.
By her lookes I doe her know,
Which you call my shafts. And see!
Such my mother's blushes be,
As the bath your verse discloses
In her cheekes, of milke and roses;
Such as oft I wanton in.

And, above her even chin,

Have you plac'd the banke of kisses,
Where you say, men gather blisses,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,
Then when flowers and west-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish'd neck,
With the lace that doth it deck,
Is my mother's! hearts of slaine
Lovers, made into a chaine!
And betweene each rising breast
Lyes the valley, cal'd 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 confesse all," I replide,
"And the glasse hangs by her side,
And the girdle 'bout her waste,
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 minde the formes, that strove
For the apple, and those three
Make in one, the sanze were shee.
For this beauty yet doth hide
Something more then thou hast spi'd.
Outward grace weake love beguiles:
Shee is Venus when she smiles,
But shee's Juno when she walkes,
And Minerva when she talkes."

I will but mend the last, and tell Where, how, it would have relish'd well; Joyne lip to lip, and try:

Each suck other's breath,

And whilst our tongues perplexed lie, Let who will thinke us dead, or wish our death.

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VI. CLAYMING A SECOND KISSE BY DESERT.

CHARIS, guesse, and doe not miss,
Since I drew a morning kisse
From your lips, and suck'd an ayre
Thence, as sweet as you are faire.

What my Muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost or wonne,
If by us the oddes were laid,
That the bride (allow'd a maid)
Look'd not halfe so fresh and faire,
With th' advantage of her haire,
And her jewels, to the view
Of th' assembly, as did you !

Or, that did you sit, or walke,
You were more the eye and talke
Of the court, to day, then all
Else that glister'd in White-hall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wisht the bride were chang'd to night,
And did thinke such rites were due
To no other grace but you!

Or, if you did move to night
In the daunces, with what spight
Of your peeres you were beheld,
That at every motion sweld
So to see a lady tread,
As might all the Graces leade,
And was worthy (being so seene)
To be envi'd of the queene.

Or, if you would yet have stay'd,
Whether any would up-braid
To himselfe his losse of time;
Or have charg'd his sight of crime,
To have left all sight for you:

Guesse of these, which is the true;
And, if such a verse as this
May not claime another kisse.

VII. BEGGING ANOTHER, ON COLOUR OF MENDING
THE FORMER.

For Love's sake, kisse me once againe,
I long, and should not beg in vaine,
Here's none to spie or see;
Why doe you doubt, or stay?

I'le 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 aske lesse then one?
Nay, you may erre in this,

And all your bountie wrong:
This could be call'd but halfe a kisse.
What w'are but once to doe, we should doe long.

VIII. URGING HER OF A PROMISE.

CHARIS one day in discourse
Had of Love, and of his force,
Lightly promis'd, 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 worke would be effected:
But we find that cold delay
And excuse spun every day,
As, untill she tell her one,
We all feare she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do't,
For I will so urge you to't,
You shall neither eat, nor sleepe,
No, nor forth your window peepe,
With your emissarie eye,
To fetch in the formes goe by:
And pronounce, which band or lace
Better fits him then his face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your idoll glasse a whit,
To say over every purle
There; or to reforme a curle;
Or with secretarie Sis

To consult, if fucus this
Be as good as was the last:
All your sweet of life is past,
Make account unlesse you can,
(And that quickly) speake your man.

IX. HER MAN DESCRIBED BY HER OWNE
DICTAMEN.

Or 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 confesse, doe take me,
And a woman God did make me.
French to boote, at least in fashion,
And his manners of that nation.

Young I'd have him too, and faire,
Yet a man; with crisped haire,
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 looke wanton-wise.
Eye-brows bent like Cupid's bow,
Front, an ample field of snow;
Even nose, and cheeke (withall)
Smooth as is the billiard ball:
Chin, as woolly as the peach;
And his lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherish'd too much beard,
And make Love or me afeard,

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