---

Thomas Carew - To Ben Jonson Upon Occasion Of His Ode Of Defiance Annexed
Work rating: Medium

`Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
    Hath fix`d upon the sotted age a brand
    To their swoll`n pride and empty scribbling due;
    It can nor judge, nor write, and yet `tis true
    Thy comic muse, from the exalted line
    Touch`d by thy Alchemist, doth since decline
    From that her zenith, and foretells a red
    And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
    Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
   With which all stars shall gild the following night.
   Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may
   Endure the sunny trial, if we say
   This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
   Trick`d up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
   Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar`d
   With thy tun`d choir of swans? or else who dar`d
   To call thy births deform`d? But if thou bind
   By city-custom,  or by gavelkind,
   In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
   We may distinguish of their sex, and place;
   Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike
   Souls into all, they are not all alike.
   Why should the follies then of this dull age
   Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage
   As seems to blast thy else-immorta l bays,
   When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise?
   Such thirst will argue drouth. No, let be hurl`d
   Upon thy works by the detracting world
   What malice can suggest; let the rout say,
   The running sands, that, ere thou make a play,
   Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame
   To swallow, when th` hast done, thy shipwreck`d name;
   Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,
   Suck`d by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray`d
   To theft the blood of martyr`d authors, spilt
   Into thy ink, whilst thou growest pale with guilt.
   Repine not at the taper`s thrifty waste,
   That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste
   Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome
   A knotty writer, bring the booty home;
   Nor think it theft if the rich spoils so torn
   From conquer`d authors be as trophies worn.
   Let others glut on the extorted praise
   Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days;
   Thy labour`d works shall live when time devours
   Th` abortive offspring of their hasty hours.
   Thou are not of their rank, the quarrel lies
   Within thine own verge; then let this suffice,
   The wiser world doth greater thee confess
   Than all men else, than thyself only less.
Source
The script ran 0.011 seconds.