Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A SPEECH ACCORDING TO HORACE, by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Why yet, my noble hearts, they cannot say Last Line: Her broken arms up, to their empty moulds. | ||||||||
Why yet, my noble hearts, they cannot say, But we have powder still for the king's day, And ordinance too: so much as from the tower To have waked, if sleeping, Spain's ambassador, Old Aesop Gondomar: the French can tell, For they did see it the last tilting well, That we have trumpets, armour, and great horse, Lances, and men, and some a breaking force. They saw too store of feathers, and more may, If they stay here, but till Saint George's Day. All ensigns of a war are not yet dead, Nor marks of wealth so from our nation fled, But they may see gold chains, and pearl worn then, Lent by the London dames, to the lords' men; Withal, the dirty pains those citizens take, To see the pride at court, their wives do make: And the return those thankful courtiers yield To have their husbands drawn forth to the field, And coming home, to tell what acts were done Under the auspice of young Swinnerton. What a strong fort old Pimlico had been! How it held out! How (last) 'twas taken in! Well, I say thrive, thrive brave Artillery vard, Thou seed-plot of the war, that hast not spared Powder, or paper, to bring up the youth Of London, in the military truth, These ten years' day; as all may swear that look But on thy practice, and the posture book: He that but saw thy curious captain's drill, Would think no more of Flushing or the Brill: But give them over to the common ear For that unnecessary charge they were. Well did thy crafty clerk, and knight, Sir Hugh Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view Translated Aelian Tactics to be read. And the Greek discipline (with the modern) shed So, in that ground as soon it grew to be The city-question, whether Tilly, or he, Were now the greater captain! For they saw The Berghen siege, and taking in Breda, So acted to the life, as Maurice might, And Spinola have blushed at the sight. O happy art! And wise epitome Of bearing arms! Most civil soldiery! Thou canst draw forth thy forces, and fight dry The battles of thy aldermanity; Without the hazard of a drop of blood: More than the surfeits, in thee, that day stood. Go on, increase in virtue and in fame: And keep the glory of the English name, Up among nations. In the stead of bold Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audleys old; Insert thy Hodges, and those newer men, As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen: That keep the war, though now't be grown more tame, Alive yet, in the noise; and still the same; And could (if our great men would let their sons Come to their schools) show them the use of guns. And there instruct the noble English heirs In politic and militar' affairs; But he that should persuade, to have this done For education of our lordings; soon Should he not hear of billow, wind, and storm, From the tempestuous grandlings? 'Who'll inform Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus, Born, bred, allied! What's he dare tutor us? Are we by bookworms to be awed? Must we Live by their scale, that dare do nothing free? Why are we rich, or great, except to show All licence in our lives? What need we know? More than to praise a dog or horse? Or speak The hawking language? Or our day to break With citizens? Let clowns, and tradesmen breed Their sons to study arts, the laws, the creed: We will believe, like men of our own rank, In so much land a year, or such a bank, That turns us so much monies, at which rate Our ancestors imposed on prince and state. Let poor nobility be virtuous: we, Descended in a rope of titles, be From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom The herald will. Our blood is now become Past any need of virtue. Let them care, That in the cradle of their gentry are, To serve the state by councils, and by arms: We neither love the troubles, nor the harms.' What love you then? Your whore? What study? Gait, Carriage, and dressing? There is up of late The academy, where the gallants meet -- What, to make legs? Yes, and to smell most sweet. All that they do at plays. O, but first here They learn and study; and then practise there. But why are all these irons in the fire Of several makings? Helps, helps, to attire His lordship. That is for his band, his hair This, and that box his beauty to repair; This other for his eyebrows; hence, away, I may no longer on these pictures stay, These carcasses of honour; tailors' blocks, Covered with tissue, whose prosperity mocks The fate of things: whilst tottered virtue holds Her broken arms up, to their empty moulds. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 4. HER TRIUMPH by BEN JONSON A CELEBRATION OF CHARIS: 5. HIS DISCOURSE WITH CUPID by BEN JONSON A FIT OF RHYME AGAINST RHYME [OR, RIME] by BEN JONSON A NYMPH'S PASSION by BEN JONSON A SONNET, TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WROTH by BEN JONSON AN ODE TO HIMSELF by BEN JONSON ANSWER TO MASTER WITHER'S SONG, 'SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR?' by BEN JONSON EPICOENE; OR, THE SILENT WOMAN: FREEDOM IN DRESS by BEN JONSON EPIGRAM: 118. ON GUT by BEN JONSON |
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