TO MIME by BEN JONSON

That, not a pair of friends each other see,
But the first question is, when one saw thee?
That there's no journey set, or thought upon,
To Brainford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one;
That scarce the town designeth any feast
To which th'art not a week, bespoke a guest;
That still th'art made the supper's flag, the drum,
The very call, to make all others come:
Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? Or, that they strive
Whose noise shall keep thy miming most alive,
Whilst thou dost raise some player, from the grave,
Outdance the babion, or outboast the brave,
Or (mounted on a stool) thy face doth hit
On some new gesture, that's imputed wit?
O, run not proud of this. Yet, take thy due.
Thou dost outzany Cokely, Pod; nay Gue:
And thine own Coriat too. But (wouldst thou see)
Men love thee not for this: they laugh at thee.

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