Hausschatz englischer Poesie

Benjamin Jonson, gewöhnlicher Ben Jonson genannt, ein Zeitgenosse und nicht unwürdiger Nebenbuhler Shakspeare's, ward nach dem Tode seines Vaters, eines Predigers, 1574 in Westminster geboren. Ein Freund machte es ihm möglich die Schule zu besuchen, aber sein Stiefvater, ein Maurer, zwang ihn, sein Handwerk zu ergreifen. Höchst wahrscheinlich entlief er aus der Lehre und diente als gemeiner Soldat in den Niederlanden, wenigstens deutet eins seiner Epigramme entschieden auf das Letztere hin. In das Vaterland zurückgekehrt, gelang es ihm nun doch in Cambridge zu studiren; da aber seine Mittel nicht ausreichten ward er Schauspieler, hatte jedoch das Unglück, einen Gegner im Duell zu tödten und musste in Folge dessen in das Gefängniss, worauf er sich überreden liess zum Katholicismus überzutreten und endlich seine Freiheit wieder erhielt. Dies Alles erlebte er vor seinem fünf und zwanzigsten Lebensjahre. Von nun an widmete er sich der dramatischen Poesie und erwarb sich durch seine Leistungen grosses Ansehen, doch auch durch seine kühnen Angriffe viele Feinde, so dass er nochmals in den Kerker geworfen wurde. Im Jahre 1616 gab er selbst seine gesammelten Werke in einem Bande in Folio heraus. Die Universität Oxford ertheilte ihm darauf 1619 das Magisterdiplom und er ward fast gleichzeitig Hofdichter mit Besoldung. Er starb am 6. August 1637 und ward in der Westminsterabtei begraben. Drei Tage später kam einer seiner Freunde gelegentlich dazu als ein Steinhauer das Pflaster über seiner Gruft wieder festlegte. Dieser gab dem Manne achtzehn Pence dafür die Worte einzuhauen “O rare Ben Jonson!" und diese eigenthümliche naive Grabschrift bezeichnet noch jetzt die Stätte, wo seine Gebeine ruhen.

Ausser seinen zahlreichen Tragödien, Komödien und Maskenspielen schrieb er noch Episteln, Epigramme, Elegien und Oden, bearbeitete Horaz Poetik und verfasste eine englische Grammatik. Seine dramatischen Werke sind wiederholt aufgelegt worden. Die vollständigste Ausgabe derselben ist die von P. Whalley, London 1756, 7 Bde in 8. Er ist am glücklichsten als Lustspieldichter durch Charakterzeichnung und Streben nach Regelmässigkeit, aber zu gesucht und ermüdend, selbst da wo er natürlich sein will, und sehr oft hart, trocken und eintönig; auch seinen übrigen Gedichten kleben diese Fehler an; er schätzte gelehrtes Wissen höher als natürliche Wahrheit, und ange

borene Fähigkeit und seine Leistungen bieten daher mehr Interesse als Hülfsmittel zum Verständniss der bedeutenden Zeit, in der er lebte, denn wirklichen und tieferen poetischen Genuss dar, obwohl sich auch manches Ausgezeichnete in ihnen findet.

To Penshurst.

They're rear'd with no mans ruine, no mans

grone,

downe;

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, There's none that dwell about them, wish them
Of touch, or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars or a roofe of gold:

Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told; Or stayre, or courts; but stand'st an ancient pile,

And these grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while. Thou joy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre, Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire. Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport:

Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,

Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set,

At his great birth, where all the Muses met. There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames. And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft provoke

The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke.
Thy copps, too, nam'd of Gamage, thou hast there,

That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,
When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doe
feed:

The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.
Each banke doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps
Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copps,
To crowne thy open table, doth provide

But all come in, the farmer and the clowne,
And no one empty-handed, to salute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.
Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake
Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke
they make

The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would
commend

This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare
An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare.
But what can this (more then expresse their love)
Adde to thy free provisions, farre above
The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,
With all that hospitalitie doth know!

Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to cate,

Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate: Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same wine,

That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.
And I not faine to sit (as some, this day,

At great mens tables) and yet dine away.
Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter doth my gluttony envy:
But gives me what I call, and lets me eate,
He knowes, below he shall finde plentie of
meate,

The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: Thy tables hoord not up for the next day,
The painted partrich lyes in every field,
And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net,

Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray,
For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there;

And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat,
As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay,
Officiously, at first, themselves betray.
Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on
land,

Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres.
The earely cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth

come:

The blushing apricot, and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the contrey stone,

As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here:
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King James, when, hunting late
this way,
With his brave sonne,

the prince, they saw thy
fires

Shine bright on every harth as the desires Of thy Penates had beene set on flame,

To entertayne them; or the countrey came, With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.

What (great, I will not say, but) sodayne cheare Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise was heap'd

On thy good lady, then! who, therein, reap'd The just reward of her high huswifery;

To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh, When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest

As if it had expected such a guest! These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all. Thy lady's noble, fruitfull, chaste withall. His children thy great lord may call his owne : A fortune, in this age, but rarely knowne. They are, and have been taught religion: thence Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence. Each morne and even they are taught to pray, With the whole household, and may, every day, Reade, in their vertuous parents noble parts,

The mysteries of manners, armes, and arts. Now Penshurst, they that will proportion thee With other edifices, when they see

Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else, May say, their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.

The sweet Neglect.

From the silent Woman.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be pou'dred, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be presum'd,
Though arts hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a looke, give me a face,
That makes simplicitie a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, haire as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Then all th' adulteries of art:

They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Echo on Narcissus.

From Cynthia's revells.

Slow, slow, fresh fount, keepe time with my salt teares,

Yet slower, yet, ô faintly gentle springs: List to the heavy part the musique beares, Woe weepes out her division, when shee sings.

Droupe hearbs, and flowres;

Fall griefe in showres;

Our beauties are not ours:
O, I could still

(Like melting snow upon some craggie hill,)

Drop, drop, drop, drop,

Since Natures pride is, now, a wither'd daffodill.

Hymne to Diana.
From Cynthia's revells.

Queene, and huntresse, chaste, and faire,
Now the sunne is laid to sleepe,
Seated, in thy silver chaire,
State in wonted manner keepe:
Hesperus intreats thy light,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare it selfe to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orbe was made
Heaven to cleere, when day did close:
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Lay thy how of pearle apart,
And thy cristall-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever:
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddesse, excellently bright.

Song.

From the Poetaster.

If I freely may discover,
What would please me in my lover:
I would have her faire, and wittie,
Savouring more of court, then cittie;
A little proud, but full of pittie

Light, and humorous in her toying,

Oft building hopes, and soone destroying, Long, but sweet in the enjoying Neither too easie, nor too hard: All extremes I would have bar'd.

Shee should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as fashions;

Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish, and then swowning,
Every fit, with change, still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,
Then onely constant when I crave her
'Tis a vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

Song.

From the Foxe.

Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we can, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,
He, at length, our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But if, once, we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetuall night.
Why should wee deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toies;
Cannot we delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold-spies?
Or his easier eares beguile,
Thus remooved, by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale
But the sweet thefts to reveale:
To be taken, to be seene,

These have crimes accounted beene.

Scene from Volpone; or, the Fox. A Comedy. By Ben Jonson.

Volpone as on his death bed.

Mosca. Corbaccio, an old gentleman. Mos. Signior Corbaccio,

You are very welcome, sir.

Corb. How does your patron?

Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.
Corb. What? mends he?
Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse.
Corb. That's well. Where is he?

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Corb. Does he sleep well?

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night,

Nor yesterday; but slumbers.

Corb. Good! he shall take

Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him
An opiate here, from mine own doctor
Mos. He will not hear of drugs.
Corb. Why? I myself

Stood by, while 'twas made; saw all th' ingredients;

And know it cannot but most gently work
My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep.
Volp. I, his last sleep if he would take it.
Mos. Sir,

He has no faith in physic.

Corb. Say you, say you?

Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does

think,

Most of your doctors are the greatest danger, And worst disease t'escape.

I often have

Heard him protest, that your physician

Should never be his heir.

Corb. Not I his heir?

Mos. Not your physician, sir.

Corb. O, no, no, no,

I do not mean it.

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says they flay a man,
Before they kill him.

Corb. Right, I do conceive you.

Mos. And then, they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, But gives them great reward; and he is loth To hire his death, so.

Corb. It is true, they kill,

With as much licence as a Judge.

Mos. Nay, more;

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too.

Can claim a part; 'tis yours without a rival,

Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual Decreed by destiny.

rheum

Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha!
How does he with the swimming of his head?
Mos. O, sir 'tis past the scotomy; he now
Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort:
You hardly can perceive him that he breathes.
Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall
outlast him:

This makes me young again a score of years.
Mos. I was coming for you, sir.
Corb. Has he made his will?

What has he giv'n me?

Mos. No, sir.

Corb. Nothing? ha?

Mos. He has not made his will, sir.

Corb. Oh, oh, oh,

What then did Voltore the lawyer here?

Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but

heard

My master was about his testament;

As I did urge him to it for your good