Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A WEAK GAMESTER IN POETRY, by BEN JONSON



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TO A WEAK GAMESTER IN POETRY, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: With thy small stock, why are thou venturing still
Last Line: There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets


With thy small stock, why are thou vent'ring still,
At this so subtle sport: and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is mere fortune, that can win?
Or thy rank setting? That thou dar'st put in
Thy all, at all: and whatsoe'er I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too?
I cannot for the stage a drama lay,
Tragic, or comic; but thou writ'st the play.
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend
An epic poem; thou hast the same end.
I modestly quit that, and think to write,
Next morn, an ode: thou mak'st a song ere night.
I pass to elegies; thou meet'st me there:
To satires; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I 'scape thee? In an epigram?
O (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pity thy ill luck;
That both for wit, and sense, so oft dost pluck,
And never art encountered, I confess:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is less.
Prithee, yet save thy rest; give o'er in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.





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