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But thinke that wee
Are but turn'd aside to sleepe;
They who one another keepe
Alive, ne'er parted bee.

If thou beest borne to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Rede ten thousand daies and nights,
Till age snow white haires on thee,
Thou, when thou retorn'st, wilt tell mee
All strange wonders that befell thee,

And sweare no where
Lives a woman true, and faire.

Goe, and catche a falling starre,
Get with child a mandrake roote,
Tell mee, where all past yeares are,
Or who cleft the divels foot,
Teach me to heare mermaides singing,
Or to keep off enviesstinging,

And finde what winde
Serves to advance an honest minde.

If thou findst one, let mee know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet,
Yet doe not, I would not goe,
Though at next doore wee might meet,
Though shee were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,

Yet shee will bee
False, ere I come, to two or three.


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

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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.


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To Penshurst.

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

grone, 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

downe; Of polish'd pillars or a roofe of gold :

But all come in, the farmer and the clowne, Thou hast no lantherne, whereof tales are told; And no one empty-handed, to salute Or stayre, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile, Thy lord and lady, though they have no sute.

And these grudg’d at, are reverenc'd the while. Some bring a capon, some a rurall cake Thou joy'st in better markes, of soyle, of ayre, Some nuts, some apples; some that thinke Of wood, of water: therein thou art faire.

they make Thou hast thy walkes for health, as well as sport: The better cheeses, bring 'hem; or else send

Thy Mount, to which the Dryads doe resort, By their ripe daughters, whom they would Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have

commend made,

This way to husbands; and whose baskets beare Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; An embleme of themselves, in plum or peare. That tailer tree, which of a nut was set, But what can this (more then expresse their love)

At his great birth , where all the Muses met. Adde to thy free provisions, farre above There, in the writhed barke, are cut the names The neede of such? whose liberall boord doth flow,

Of many a Sylvane, taken with his flames. With all that hospitalitie doth know! And thence, the ruddy Satyres oft provoke Where comes no guest, but is allow'd to cate,

The lighter Faunes, to reach thy Ladies oke. Without his feare, and of thy lords owne meate: Thy copps, too, nam’d of Gamage, thou hast there, Where the same beere, and bread, and selfe-same That never failes to serve thee season'd deere,

wine, When thou would'st feast or exercise thy friends. That is his Lordships, shall be also mine.

The lower land, that to the river bends, And I not faine to sit (as some, this day, Thy sheepe, thy bullocks, kine, and calves doe At great mens tables) and yet dine away.

feed :

Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed. A waiter doth my gluttony envy: Each banke doth yeeld thee coneyes; and the topps But gives me what I call, and lets me eate,

Fertile of wood, Ashore, and Sydney's copps, He knowes, below he shall finde plentie of To crowne thy open table, doth provide

meate, The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side: Thy tables hoord not up for the next day, The painted partrich lyes in every field,

Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray, And, for thy messe, is willing to be kill'd. For fire, or lights, or livorie: all is there; And if the high swolne Medway faile thy dish, As if thou, then, wert mine, or I raign'd here:

Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish, There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay. Fat, aged carps, that runne into thy net,

That found King James, when, hunting late And pikes, now weary their owne kinde to eat, As loth, the second draught, or cast to stay, With his brave sonne, the prince, they saw thy Ofticiously, at first, themselves betray.

fires Bright eeles, that emulate them, and leape on Shine bright on every harth as the desires


Of thy Penates had beene set on flame, Before the fisher, or into his hand.

To entertayne them; or the countrey came, Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, With all their zeale, to warme their welcome here.

Fresh as the ayre, and new as are the houres. What (great, I will not say, but) sodaync cheare The carely cherry, with the later plum, Didst thou, then, make 'hem! and what praise Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth

was heap'd

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

Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach. To have her linnen, plate, and all things nigh, And though thy walls be of the contrey stone, When shee was farre: and not a roome, but drest

this way,

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To Celia.

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, Reađe, 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


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 hirst, 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, å rosie wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered bee.
But thou thereon did'st onely breath,

And sent'st it backe to mee:
Since when it growes, and smells, I sweare,

Not of it selfe, but thee.

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Light, and humorous in her toying,

Mos. Upon his couch, sir, newly fall'n asleep. Oft building hopes, and soone destroying, Corb. Does he sleep well? Long, but sweet in the enjoying

Mos. No wink, sir, all this night, Neither too easie, nor too hard:

Nor yesterday; but slumbers. All extremes I would have bar'd.

Corb. Good! he shall take

Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him Shee should be allowed her passions, An opiate here, from mine own doctor So they were but us'd as fashions ;

Mos. He will not hear of drugs. Sometimes froward, and then frowning, Corb. Why? I myself Sometimes sickish, and then swowning, Stood by, while 'twas made; saw all th' ingreEvery fit, with change, still crowning.

dients; Purely jealous, I would have her,

And know it cannot but most gently work Then onely constant when I crave her My life for his, 'tis but to make him sleep. 'Tis a vertue should not save her.

Volp. I, his last sleep if he would take it. Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,

Mos. Sir, Neither her peevishnesse annoy me.

He has no faith in physic.

Corb. Say you, say you?
Mos. He has no faith in physic: he does

Most of your doctors are the greatest danger,

And worst disease t'escape. I often have From the Foxe.

Heard him protest, that your physician

Should never be his heir.
Come, my Celia , let us prove,
While we can,

Corb. Not I his heir?
the sports of love;
Time will not be ours for ever,

Mos. Not your physician, sir.

Corb. O, no, no, no,
He, at length, our good will sever;

I do not mean it.
Spend not then his gifts in vaine,
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:

Mos. No, sir, nor their fees

He cannot brook: he says they flay a man, But if, once, we lose this light, 'Tis with us perpetuall night.

Before they kill him. Why should wee deferre our joyes ?

Corb. Right, I do conceive you. Fame, and rumor are but toies;

Mos. And then, they do it by experiment; Cannot we delude the eyes

For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, Of a few poore houshold-spies?

But gives them great reward; and he is loth Or his easier eares beguile,

To hire his death, so.

Corb. It is true, they kill, Thus remooved, by our wile? 'Tis no sinne, loves fruits to steale

With as much licence as a Judge. But the sweet thefts to reveale:

Mos. Nay, more; To be taken, to be seene,

For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns,

And these can kill him too.
These have crimes accounted beene.

Corb. I, or me;
Or any man. How does his apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?

Mos. Most violent. Scene from Volpone ; His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, or, the Fox. A Comedy. By Ben Jonson. His face drawn longer than 'twas wont.

Corb. How? how?

Stronger than he was wont?
Volpone as on his death bed.

Mos. No, sir: his face
Mosca. Corbaccio, an old gentleman. Drawn longer than 'twas wont.
Mos. Signior Corbaccio,

Corb. O, good. You are very welcome, sir.

Mos. His mouth Corb. How does your patron?

Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. Mos. Troth, as he did, sir, no amends.

Corb. Good. Corb. What? mends he?

Mos. A freezing numbness stiffens all his Mos. No, sir, he is rather worse.

joints, Corb. That's well. Where is he?

And makes the colour of his flesh like dead.



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Corb. 'Tis good.

Mos. At no hand; pardon me Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull.

You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Corb. Good symptoms still.

Will so advise you, you shall have it all. Mos. And from his brain

Corb. How? Corb. Ha? how? not from his brain?

Mos. All sir, 'tis your right, your own; no Mos. Yes, sir, and from his brain Corb. I conceive you, good.

Can claim a part; 'tis yours without a rival, Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual Decreed by destiny.


Corb. How? how, good Mosca ? Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Mos. I'll tell you,

sir. This fit he shall Corb. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How does he with the swimming of his head? Corb. I do conceive you.

Mos. O, sir 'tis past the scotomy; he now Mos. And on first advantage Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: Of his gain'd sense, will I re-importune him You hardly can perceive him that he breathes. Unto the making of his testament: Corb. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall And shew him this.

outlast him:

Corb. Good, good. This makes me young again a score of years. Mos. 'Tis better yet, Mos. I was coming for you, sir.

If you will hear, sir. Corb. Has he made his will?

Corb. Yes, with all my heart. What has he giv'n me?

Mos. Now, would I counsel you, make home Mos. No, sir.

with speed; Corb. Nothing ? ha?

There frame a will; whereto you shall inscribe Mos. He has not made his will, sir.

My master your sole heir. Corb. Oh, oh, oh,

Corb. And disinherit
What then did Voltore the lawyer here?

My son?
Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but Mos. O sir, the better; for that colour


Shall make it much more taking. My master was about his testament;

Corb. O, but colour? As I did urge him to it for your good

Mos. This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought Now, when I come to inforce (as I will do)

Your cares, your watchings, and your many Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of

prayers, plate.

Your more than many gifts, your this day's Corb. To be his heir?

present, Mos. I do not know, sir.

And last produce your will; where (without Corb. True,

thought, I know it too.

Or least regard unto your proper issue, Mo s. By your own scale, sir.

A son so brave, and highly meriting) Corb. Well, I shall prevent him yet. See The stream of your diverted love hath thrown Mosca, look

you Here I have brought a bag of bright cecchines, Upon my master, and made him your heir: Will quite weigh down his plate.

He cannot be so stupid, or stone-dead, Mos. Yea marry, sir,

But out of conscience, and mere gratitude This

true physic, this your sacred medicine; Corb. He must pronounce me his? No talk of opiates, to this great elixir.

Mos. "Tis true. Corb. Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. Corb. This plot Mos. It shall be miniser'd to him in his bowl? Did I think on before. Corb. I, do, do, do.

Mos. I do believe it. Mos. Most blessed cordial.

Corb. Do you not believe it? This will recover him.

Mos. Yes, sir. Corb. O, no, no, no; by no means.

Corb. Mine own project.
Mos. Why, sir, this

Mos. Which when he hath done, sir
Will work some strange effect if he but feel it. Corb. Published me his heir ?
Corb. 'Tis true, therefore forbear, I'll take Mos. And you so certain to survive him

my venture:

Corb. I.
Mos. Being so lusty a man -

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Give me't again.

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