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The Workes of Benjamin Jonson

Jonson, Ben (1573?-1637)

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To Ben. Ionson, on his VVorks.
  
ON THE AUTHOR, The Poet Laureat, Ben. Jonson.
  
On his elaborated Art-contrived Playes.
  
Upon Sejanus.
  
To His worthy friend, Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Sejanus.
  
TO MY FRIEND, Mr. Ben. Jonson. Vpon his Alchymist.
  
To my deare friend, M. Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Fox.
  
UPON THE SILENT WOMAN.
  
To my friend M. Ben. Ionson. Vpon his Catiline.
  
Song.
  
Song.
  
Song.
  
Song.
  
The Hymne.
  
Song.
  
[Swell me a bowle with lustie wine]
  
Song.
  
Song.
  
Song.
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EPIGRAMMES. I. BOOKE.
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THE FORREST.
 I. 
I. Why I Write Not Of Love.
 II. 
II. To Penshurst.
 III. 
III. To Sir Robert Wroth.
 IV. 
IV. To The World.
 V. 
V. Song. To Celia.
 VI. 
VI. To The Same.
 VII. 
VII. Song. That Women Are But Mens Shaddows.
 VIII. 
VIII. Song. To Sicknesse.
 IX. 
IX. Song. To Celia.
 X. 
X.
 XI. 
XI. Epode.
 XII. 
XII. Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland.
 XIII. 
XIII. Epistle. To Katherine, Lady Aubigny:
 XIIII. 
XIIII. Ode. To Sir William Sydney, On His Birth-day.
 XV. 
XV. To Heaven.
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PART OF THE KINGS ENTERTAINMENT, IN PASSING TO HIS CORONATION.
  
A PANEGYRE, ON THE HAPPY ENTRANCE OF Iames, our Soveraigne, to His first high Session of Parliament in this his Kingdome, the 19 of March, 1603.
  
[This is mab the mistris-Fairy]
  
3 Charme.
  
[Buz, quoth the blue Flie]
  
[Soft, subtill fire, thou soule of Art]
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257

Song.

[If I freely can discover]

1

If I freely can discover,
What would please mee in my lover:
I would have her faire, and wittie,
Savouring more of Court, than Citie;
A little proud, but full of pitie:
Light, and humorous in her toying.
Oft building hopes, and soone destroying;
Long, but sweet in the enjoying,
Neither too easie, nor too hard:
All extremes I would have bard.

2

Shee should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as fashions;
Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
Sometimes sickish and then swowning,
Euery fit, with change, still crowning.
Purely jealous, I would have her,
Then only constant when I crave her.
'Tis a vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy mee,
Neither her peevishnesse annoy mee.
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