To Ben Jonson

'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand     Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand     To their swoll'n pride and empty scribbling due;     It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true     Thy comic muse, from the exalted line     Touch'd by thy Alchemist, doth since decline     From that her zenith, and foretells a red     And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;     Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light     With which all stars shall gild the following night.     Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may     Endure the sunny trial, if we say     This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine     Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.     Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd     With thy tun'd choir of swans? or else who dar'd     To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind     By city-custom, or by gavelkind,     In equal shares thy love on all thy race,     We may distinguish of their sex, and place;     Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike     Souls into all, they are not all alike.     Why should the follies then of this dull age     Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage     As seems to blast thy else-immortal bays,     When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise?     Such thirst will argue drouth. No, let be hurl'd     Upon thy works by the detracting world     What malice can suggest; let the rout say,     The running sands, that, ere thou make a play,     Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame     To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd name;     Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,     Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd     To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt     Into thy ink, whilst thou growest pale with guilt.     Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,     That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste     Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome     A knotty writer, bring the booty home;     Nor think it theft if the rich spoils so torn     From conquer'd authors be as trophies worn.     Let others glut on the extorted praise     Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days;     Thy labour'd works shall live when time devours     Th' abortive offspring of their hasty hours.     Thou are not of their rank, the quarrel lies     Within thine own verge; then let this suffice,     The wiser world doth greater thee confess     Than all men else, than thyself only less.