Classic and Contemporary Poetry
AN ELEGY (3), by BEN JONSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: That love's a bitter sweet, I ne'er conceive Last Line: If I had writ no word, but 'dear', farewell. | ||||||||
That love's a bitter sweet, I ne'er conceive Till the sour minute comes of taking leave, And then I taste it. But as men drink up In haste the bottom of a medicined cup, And take some syrup after; so do I, To put all relish from my memory Of parting, drown it in the hope to meet Shortly again: and make our absence sweet. This makes me, mistress, that sometime by stealth Under another name, I take your health; And turn the ceremonies of those nights I give, or owe my friends, into your rites, But ever without blazon, or least shade Of vows so sacred, and in silence made; For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheer, And free society, he's born elsewhere, And must be bred, so to conceal his birth, As neither wine do rack it out, or mirth. Yet should the lover still be airy and light, In all his actions rarified to sprite; Not like a Midas shut up in himself, And turning all he toucheth into pelf, Keep in reserved in his dark-lantern face, As if that excellent dulness were love's grace; No, mistress, no, the open merry man Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can Keep secret in his channels what he breeds 'Bove all your standing waters, choked with weeds. They look at best like cream bowls, and you soon Shall find their depth: they're sounded with a spoon. They may say grace, and for love's chaplains pass; But the grave lover ever was an ass; Is fixed upon one leg, and dares not come Out with the other, for he's still at home; Like the dull, wearied crane that (come on land) Doth, while he keeps his watch, betray his stand. Where he that knows will like a lapwing fly Far from the nest, and so himself belie To others, as he will deserve the trust Due to that one, that doth believe him just. And such your servant is, who vows to keep The jewel of your name, as close as sleep Can lock the sense up, or the heart a thought, And never be by time, or folly brought, Weakness of brain, or any charm of wine, The sin of boast, or other countermine (Made to blow up love's secrets) to discover That article, may not become your lover: Which in assurance to your breast I tell, If I had writ no word, but 'dear', farewell. | 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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