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Contemplative, Ben Jonson, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeBen Jonson

Song To Diana

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever:
ContemplativeBen Jonson

A Farewell to the World

FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage. Yes, threaten, do. Alas! I fear As little as I hope from thee: I know thou canst not show nor bear More hatred than thou hast to me. My tender, first, and simple years Thou didst abuse and then betray; Since stir'd'st up jealousies and fears, When all the causes were away. Then in a soil hast planted me Where breathe the basest of thy fools; Where envious arts professed be, And pride and ignorance the schools;
ContemplativeBen Jonson

A Hymn to God the Father

Hear me, O God! A broken heart Is my best part. Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein thy Love. If thou hadst not Been stern to me, But left me free, I had forgot Myself and thee. For sin's so sweet, As minds ill-bent Rarely repent, Until they meet Their punishment.
ContemplativeBen Jonson

Song from The Silent Woman

Still to be neat, still to be dressed, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free; Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th' adulteries of art: They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
ContemplativeBen Jonson

It Is Not Growing Like A Tree

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night— It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

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