Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ODE TO HIMSELF, by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Come, leave the loathed stage Last Line: And see his chariot triumph 'bove his wain. Variant Title(s): On The New Inn. Ode. To Himself Subject(s): Jonson, Ben (1572-1637); Pericles (490-429 B.c.); Poetry & Poets; Theater & Theaters; Stage Life | ||||||||
Come leave the loathed stage, And the more loathsome age, Where pride and impudence in faction knit Usurp the chair of wit: Indicting and arraigning every day, Something they call a play. Let their fastidious, vain Commission of the brain, Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn: They were not made for thee, less thou for them. Say that thou pourest 'em wheat, And they would acorns eat: 'Twere simple fury, still thyself to waste On such as have no taste, To offer them a surfeit of bread, Whose appetites are dead. No, give them grains their fill, Husks, draff to drink, and swill: If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate's with the swine. No doubt a mouldy tale, Like Pericles, and stale As the shrive's crusts, and nasty as his fish, Scraps out of every dish. Thrown forth and raked into the common tub, May keep up the Play Club. Broome's sweepings do as well There as his master's meal, For who the relish of these guests will fit Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit. And much good do't ye then, Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts; and safe in your scene clothes, Dare quit upon your oaths The stagers, and the stage-wrights too; your peers, Of stuffing your large ears With rage of comic socks, Wrought upon twenty blocks, Which, if they're torn, and foul, and patched enough, The gamesters share your guilt, and you their stuff. Leave things so prostitute, And take the Alcaic lute, Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre; Warm thee by Pindar's fire, And though thy nerves be shrunk and blood be cold, Ere years have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat Throughout, to their defeat: As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May blushing swear, no palsy's in thy brain. But when they hear thee sing The glories of thy king; His zeal to God, and his just awe of men, They may be bloodshaken, then Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers, That no tuned harp like ours, In sound of peace or wars, Shall truly hit the stars When they shall read the acts of Charles his reign, And see his chariot triumph 'bove his wain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 1. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL SOUNDS OF THE RESURRECTED DEAD MAN'S FOOTSTEPS (#20): 2. SHAKESPEARE by MARVIN BELL ELEGY IN A THEATRICAL WAREHOUSE by KENNETH FEARING LOGIC AND 'THE MAGIC FLUTE' (IMPRESSIONS OF A PREMIERE) by MARIANNE MOORE DEPRESSION DAYS (2) by PAT MORA BOY AND MOM AT THE NUTCRACKER BALLET by NAOMI SHIHAB NYE EYES LIKE LEEKS by LINDA GREGERSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 1. HIS EXCUSE FOR LOVING by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON |
|