Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN ANSWER TO BEN JONSON'S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE, by THOMAS RANDOLPH


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AN ANSWER TO BEN JONSON'S ODE, TO PERSUADE HIM NOT TO LEAVE THE STAGE, by             Poem Explanation     Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ben, do not leave the stage
Last Line: Thou, that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.
Subject(s): Brome, Richard (d. 1652); Jonson, Ben (1572-1637); Poetry & Poets; Theater & Theaters


BEN, do not leave the stage,
'Cause 'tis a loathsome age;
For pride and impudence will grow too bold
When they shall hear it told
They frighted thee. Stand high, as is thy cause;
Their hiss is thy applause.
More just were thy disdain,
Had they approv'd thy vein.
So thou for them and they for thee were born,
They to incense, and thou as much to scorn.

Wilt thou engross thy store
Of wheat, and pour no more
Because their bacon-brains have such a taste
As more delight in mast?
No; set 'em forth a board of dainties full,
As thy best muse can cull;
While they the while do pine
And thirst 'midst all their wine.
What greater plague can hell itself devise,
Than to be willing thus to tantalise?

Thou canst not find them stuff
That will be bad enough
To please their palates; let 'em thine refuse
For some Pie-Corner muse.
She is too fair a hostess, 'twere a sin
For them to like thine Inn.
'Twas made to entertain
Guests of a nobler strain,
Yet if they will have any of thy store,
Give 'em some scraps, and send them from thy door.

And let those things in plush,
Till they be taught to blush,
Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broome swept from thee.
I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to clothes, but brains.
But thy great spleen doth rise,
'Cause moles will have no eyes;
This only in my Ben I faulty find;
He's angry, they'll not see him that are blind.

Why should the scene be mute,
While thou canst touch a lute,
And string thy Horace? let each Muse of nine
Claim thee, and say [that] thou art mine.
'Twere fond to let all other flames expire
To sit by Pindar's fire:
For by so strange neglect,
I should myself suspect
The palsy were as well thy brains disease,
If they could shake thy muse which way they please.

And though thou well canst sing
The glories of thy king,
And on the wings of verse his chariot bear
To heaven, and fix it there;
Yet let thy muse as well some raptures raise
To please him as to praise,
I would not have thee choose
Only a treble muse;
But have this envious, ignorant age to know:
Thou, that canst sing so high, canst reach as low.





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