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An Ode to Iames Earle of Desmond,
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 | The Workes of Benjamin Jonson |  |
An Ode to Iames Earle of Desmond,
writ in Queene Elizabeths time, since lost, and recovered.
Where art thou Genius? I should use
Thy present Aide: Arise Invention,
Wake, and put on the wings of Pindars Muse,
To towre with my intention
High, as his mind, that doth advance
Her upright head, above the reach of Chance,
Or the times envie:
Cynthius, I applie
My bolder numbers to thy golden Lyre:
O, then inspire
Thy Priest in this strange rapture; heat my braine
With Delphick fire:
That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar straine.
Thy present Aide: Arise Invention,
Wake, and put on the wings of Pindars Muse,
To towre with my intention
High, as his mind, that doth advance
Her upright head, above the reach of Chance,
Or the times envie:
Cynthius, I applie
My bolder numbers to thy golden Lyre:
O, then inspire
Thy Priest in this strange rapture; heat my braine
With Delphick fire:
That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar straine.
Rich beame of honour, shed your light
On these darke rymes; that my affection
May shine (through every chincke) to every fight
graced by your Reflection!
Then shall my Verses, like strong Charmes
Breake the knit Circle of her Stonie Armes,
That hold your spirit:
And keepes your merit
Lock't in her cold embraces, from the view
Of eyes more true,
Who would with judgement search, searching conclude,
(As prov'd in you)
True noblêsse. Palme growes straight, though handled ne're so rude?
On these darke rymes; that my affection
May shine (through every chincke) to every fight
graced by your Reflection!
Then shall my Verses, like strong Charmes
Breake the knit Circle of her Stonie Armes,
194
And keepes your merit
Lock't in her cold embraces, from the view
Of eyes more true,
Who would with judgement search, searching conclude,
(As prov'd in you)
True noblêsse. Palme growes straight, though handled ne're so rude?
Nor thinke your selfe unfortunate,
If subject to the jealous errors
Of politique pretext, that wryes a State,
Sinke not beneath these terrors:
But whisper; O glad Innocence
Where only a mans birth is his offence;
Or the dis-favour,
Of such as savour
Nothing, but practise upon honours thrall.
O vertues fall,
When her dead essence (like the Anatomie
in Surgeons hall)
Is but a Statists theame, to read Phlebotomie.
If subject to the jealous errors
Of politique pretext, that wryes a State,
Sinke not beneath these terrors:
But whisper; O glad Innocence
Where only a mans birth is his offence;
Or the dis-favour,
Of such as savour
Nothing, but practise upon honours thrall.
O vertues fall,
When her dead essence (like the Anatomie
in Surgeons hall)
Is but a Statists theame, to read Phlebotomie.
Let Brontes, and black Steropes,
Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;
Pyracmon's houre will come to give them ease,
Though but while mettal's heating:
And, after all the Ætnean Ire,
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the fire.
For fury wasteth,
As patience lasteth.
No Armour to the mind! he is shot free
From injurie,
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;
So fooles we see,
Oft scape an Imputation, more through luck, then wit.
Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;
Pyracmon's houre will come to give them ease,
Though but while mettal's heating:
And, after all the Ætnean Ire,
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the fire.
For fury wasteth,
As patience lasteth.
No Armour to the mind! he is shot free
From injurie,
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;
So fooles we see,
Oft scape an Imputation, more through luck, then wit.
But to your selfe most loyall Lord,
(Whose heart in that bright Sphere flames clearest.
Though many Gems be in your bosome stor'd,
Unknowne which is the Dearest.)
If I auspitiously devine,
(As my hope tells) that our faire Phœb's shine,
Shall light those places,
With lustrous Graces,
Where darknesse with her glomie Sceptred hand,
Doth now command.
O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,
That you will stand,
As farre from all revolt, as you are now from Fortune.
(Whose heart in that bright Sphere flames clearest.
Though many Gems be in your bosome stor'd,
Unknowne which is the Dearest.)
If I auspitiously devine,
(As my hope tells) that our faire Phœb's shine,
Shall light those places,
With lustrous Graces,
Where darknesse with her glomie Sceptred hand,
Doth now command.
O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,
That you will stand,
As farre from all revolt, as you are now from Fortune.
| The Workes of Benjamin Jonson | |