Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN ELEGY (7), by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Tis true, I'm broke! Vows, oaths, and all I had Last Line: Rather than want your light, I wish a grave. | ||||||||
'Tis true, I'm broke! Vows, oaths, and all I had Of credit lost. And I am now run mad: Or do upon myself some desperate ill; This sadness makes no approaches, but to kill. It is a darkness hath blocked up my sense, And drives it in to eat on my offence, Or there to starve it. Help, O you that may Alone lend succours, and this fury stay. Offended mistress, you are yet so fair, As light breaks from you, that affrights despair, And fills my powers with persuading joy, That you should be too noble to destroy. There may some face or menace of a storm Look forth, but cannot last in such a form. If there be nothing worthy you can see Of graces, or your mercy here in me, Spare your own goodness yet; and be not great In will and power, only to defeat. God, and the good, know to forgive, and save. The ignorant, and fools, no pity have. I will not stand to justify my fault, Or lay the excuse upon the vintner's vault; Or in confessing of the crime be nice, Or go about to countenance the vice, By naming in what company 'twas in, As I would urge authority for sin. No, I will stand arraigned, and cast, to be The subject of your grace in pardoning me, And (styled your mercy's creature) will live more Your honour now, than your disgrace before. Think it was frailty, mistress, think me man, Think that yourself like heaven forgive me can: Where weakness doth offend, and virtue grieve, There greatness takes a glory to relieve. Think that I once was yours, or may be now; Nothing is vile, that is a part of you: Error and folly in me may have crossed Your just commands; yet those, not I be lost. I am regenerate now, become the child Of your compassion; parents should be mild: There is no father that for one demerit, Or two, or three, a son will disinherit -- That is the last of punishments is meant: No man inflicts that pain, till hope be spent. An ill-affected limb (whate'er it ail) We cut not off, till all cures else do fail: And then with pause; for severed once, that's gone, Would live his glory that could keep it on; Do not despair my mending; to distrust Before you prove a medicine, is unjust. You may so place me, and in such an air As not alone the cure, but scar be fair. That is, if still your favours you apply, And not the bounties you have done, deny. Could you demand the gifts you gave, again? Why was it? Did e'er the clouds ask back their rain? The sun his heat, and light, the air his dew? Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew? That were to wither all, and make a grave Of that wise nature would a cradle have! Her order is to cherish, and preserve, Consumption's nature to destroy, and starve. But to exact again what once is given, Is nature's mere obliquity! As heaven Should ask the blood, and spirits he hath infused In man, because man hath the flesh abused. O may your wisdom take example hence, God lightens not at man's each frail offence, He pardons slips, goes by a world of ills, And then his thunder frights more, than it kills. He cannot angry be, but all must quake, It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake. And how more fair, and lovely looks the world In a calm sky; than when the heaven is hurled About in clouds, and wrapped in raging weather, As all with storm and tempest ran together. O imitate that sweet serenity That makes us live, not that which calls to die. In dark, and sullen morns; do we not say This looketh like an execution day? And with the vulgar doth it not obtain The name of cruel weather, storm, and rain? Be not affected with these marks too much Of cruelty, lest they do make you such. But view the mildness of your Maker's state, As I the penitent's here emulate: He, when he sees a sorrow such as this, Straight puts off all his anger, and doth kiss the contrite soul, who hath no thought to win Upon the hope to have another sin Forgiven him; and in that line stand I, Rather than once displease you more, to die, To suffer tortures, scorn, and infamy, What fools, and all their parasites can apply; The wit of ale, and genius of the malt Can pump for; or a libel without salt Produce; though threatening with a coal, or chalk On every wall, and sung where e'er I walk. I number these as being of the chore Of contumely, and urge a good man more Than sword, or fire, or what is of the race To carry noble danger in the face: There is not any punishment, or pain, A man should fly from, as he would disdain. Then mistress, here, here let your rigour end, And let your mercy make me ashamed t'offend. I will no more abuse my vows to you, Than I will study falsehood, to be true. O, that you could but by dissection see How much you are the better part of me! How all my fibres by your spirit do move, And that there is no life in me, but love. You would be then most confident, that though Public affairs command me now to go Out of your eyes, and be awhile away; Absence, or distance, shall not breed decay. Your form shines here, here fixed in my heart: I may dilate myself, but not depart. Others by common stars their courses run, When I see you, then I do see my sun, Till then 'tis all but darkness, that I have; Rather than want your light, I wish a grave. | 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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