Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY DEAR FRIEND BEN JONSON (DIED AUGUST 6, 1637), by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I see that wreath, which doth the wearer arm
Last Line: A relic fam'd by all posterity.
Subject(s): Jonson, Ben (1572-1637); Poetry & Poets


I SEE that wreath, which doth the wearer arm
'Gainst the quick strokes of thunder, is no charm
To keep off Death's pale dart. For, Jonson, then
Thou hadst been number'd still with living men.
Time's scythe had fear'd thy laurel to invade,
Nor thee this subject of our sorrow made.

Amongst those many votaries who come
To offer up their garlands at thy tomb;
Whilst some more lofty pens, in their bright verse
(Like glorious tapers flaming on thy hearse),
Shall light the dull and thankless world to see,
How great a maim it suffers, wanting thee;
Let not thy learned shadow scorn, that I
Pay meaner rites unto thy memory;
And since I nought can add but in desire,
Restore some sparks which leap'd from thine own fire.

What ends soever others' quills invite,
I can protest, it was no itch to write,
Nor any vain ambition to be read,
But merely love and justice to the dead,
Which rais'd my fameless Muse; and caus'd her bring
These drops, as tribute thrown into that spring,
To whose most rich and fruitful head we owe
The purest streams of language which can flow.

For 'tis but truth, thou taught'st the ruder age
To speak by grammar, and reform'dst the stage:
Thy comic sock induc'd such purged sense,
A Lucrece might have heard without offence.
Amongst those soaring wits that did dilate
Our English, and advance it to the rate
And value it now holds, thyself was one
Help'd lift it up to such proportion;
That thus refin'd and rob'd, it shall not spare
With the full Greek or Latin to compare.
For what tongue ever durst, but ours, translate
Great Tully's eloquence, or Homer's state?
Both which in their unblemish'd lustre shine,
From Chapman's pen, and from thy Catiline.
All I would ask for thee, in recompense
Of thy successful toil and time's expense,
Is only this poor boon; that those who can
Perhaps read French, or talk Italian,
Or do the lofty Spaniard affect,
To show their skill in foreign dialect,
Prove not themselves so unnaturally wise,
They therefore should their mother-tongue despise
(As if her poets, both for style and wit,
Not equall'd, or not pass'd, their best that writ),
Until by studying Jonson they have known
The height and strength and plenty of their own.

Thus in what low earth or neglected room
Soe'er thou sleep'st, thy book shall be thy tomb.
Thou wilt go down a happy corse, bestrew'd
With thine own flowers; and feel thyself renew'd,
Whilst thy immortal, never-with'ring bays
Shall yearly flourish in thy readers' praise.
And when more spreading titles are forgot,
Or spite of all their lead and cere-cloth rot,
Thou wrapp'd and shrin'd in thine own sheets wilt lie,
A relic fam'd by all posterity.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net