Classic and Contemporary Poetry
VISION OF BEN JONSON, ON MUSES OF HIS FRIEND M. DRAYTON, by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: It hath been questioned, michael, if I be Last Line: If I can be a friend, and friend to thee. Subject(s): Drayton, Michael (1563-1631) | ||||||||
It hath been questioned, Michael, if I be A friend at all; or, if at all, to thee: Because, who make the question, have not seen Those ambling visits, pass in verse, between Thy muse, and mine, as they expect. 'Tis true: You have not writ to me, nor I to you; And, though I now begin, 'tis not to rub Hanch against hanch, or raise a rhyming club About the town: this reckoning I will pay, Without conferring symbols. This is my day. It was no dream! I was awake, and saw! Lend me thy voice, O Fame, that I may draw Wonder to truth, and have my vision hurled, Hot from thy trumpet, round about the world. I saw a beauty from the sea to rise, That all earth looked on; and that earth, all eyes! It cast a beam as when the cheerful sun Is fair got up, and day some hours begun, And filled an orb as circular, as heaven! The orb was cut forth into regions seven, And those so sweet, and well-proportioned parts, As it had been the circle of the arts! When, by thy bright Ideas standing by, I found it pure, and perfect poesy, There read I, straight, thy learned Legends three, Heard the soft airs, between our swains and thee, Which made me think, the old Theocritus, Or rural Virgil come, to pipe to us! But then, thy epistolar Heroic Songs, Their loves, their quarrels, jealousies, and wrongs, Did all so strike me, as I cried, who can With us be called, the Naso, but this man? And looking up, I saw Minerva's fowl, Perched overhead, the wise Athenian Owl: I thought thee then our Orpheus, that wouldst try Like him, to make the air, one volary: And I had styled thee, Orpheus, but before My lips could form the voice, I heard that roar, And rouse, the marching of a mighty force, Drums against drums, the neighing of the horse, The fights, the cries; and wondering at the jars I saw, and read, it was thy Barons' Wars! O, how in those, dost thou instruct these times, That rebels' actions, are but valiant crimes! And carried, though with shout, and noise, confess A wild, and an authorized wickedness! Say'st thou so, Lucan? But thou scorn'st to stay Under one title. Thou hast made thy way And flight about the isle, well near, by this, In thy admired periegesis, Or universal circumduction Of all that read thy Poly-Olbion. That read it? That are ravished! Such was I With every song, I swear, and so would die; But that I hear, again, thy drum to beat A better cause, and strike the bravest heat That ever yet did fire the English blood! Our right in France, if rightly understood: There, thou art Homer! Pray thee, use the style Thou hast deserved: and let me read the while Thy catalogue of ships, exceeding his, Thy list of aids, and force, for so it is: The poet's act! And for his country's sake Brave are the musters, that the muse will make. And when he ships them where to use their arms, How do his trumpets breathe! What loud alarms! Look, how we read the Spartans were inflamed With bold Tyrtaeus' verse, when thou art named, So shall our English youth urge on, and cry An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or die. This book! It is a catechism to fight, And will be bought of every lord, and knight, That can but read; who cannot, may in prose Get broken pieces, and fight well by those. The miseries of Margaret the queen Of tender eyes will more be wept, than seen: I feel it by mine own, that overflow, And stop my sight, in every line I go. But then refreshed, with thy Fairy Court, I look on Cynthia, and Sirena's sport, As, on two flowery carpets, that did rise, And with their grassy green restored mine eyes. Yet give me leave, to wonder at the birth Of thy strange Moon Calf, both thy strain of mirth, And gossip-got acquaintance, as, to us Thou hadst brought Lapland, or old Cobalus, Empusa, Lamia, or some monster, more Than Afric knew, or the full Grecian store! I gratulate it to thee, and thy ends, To all thy virtuous, and well-chosen friends, Only my loss is, that I am not there: And, till I worthy am to wish I were, I call the world, that envies me, to see If I can be a friend, and friend to thee. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) TO MY HONOURED FRIEND MR. DRAYTON; AFFIXED TO 'POLYOLBION' by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) FUNERAL ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS VERY GOOD FRIEND MR. MICHAEL DRAYTON by ASTON COCKAYNE WASSAIL CHORUS AT THE MERMAID TAVERN by THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON SONNENIZIO ON A LINE FROM DRAYTON by KIM THERESA ADDONIZIO 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 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 |
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