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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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An Epigram.

[That you have seene the pride, beheld the sport]

That you have seene the pride, beheld the sport,
And all the games of Fortune, plaid at Court;
View'd there the mercat, read the wretched rate
At which there are, would sell the Prince, and State:
That scarce you heare, a publike voyce alive,
But whisper'd Counsells, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence, with cleare mind, and hands
To lift to heaven: who is't not understands
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Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,
To see you set apart, thus, from the rest,
T' obtaine of God, what all the Land should aske?
A Nations sinne got pardon'd! 'twere a taske?
Fit for a Bishops knees! O bow them oft,
My Lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft,
And wee doe weepe, to water, for our sinne.
He, that in such a flood, as we are in
Of riot, and consumption knowes the way,
To teach the people, how to fast, and pray,
And doe their penance, to avert Gods rod,
He is the Man, and Favorite of God.
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