Poems of the Week–Ben Jonson
Here is a somewhat conversational masterpiece by the great Ben. It's a bit long but very vivid, funny, and, while self-serving, not hypocritical. What a man he must have been! Small wonder younger poets loved him, and not simply because he helped them. His poem on Shakespeare, so often misunderstood as carping or envious, is actually a magnificent tribute to a poet Jonson the classicist must have regarded as highly flawed in some respects, even as he was so great in others.
AN ELEGY.
Let me be what I am : as Virgil cold,
As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old ;
No poet's verses yet did ever move,
Whose readers did not think he was in love.
Who shall forbid me then in rhyme to be
As light, and active as the youngest he
That from the Muses fountains doth endorse
His lines, and hourly sits the poet's horse ?
Put on my ivy garland, let me see
Who frowns, who jealous is, who taxeth me.
Fathers and husbands, I do claim a right
In all that is call'd lovely ; take my sight,
Sooner than my affection from the fair.
No face, no hand, proportion, line or air
Of beauty, but the muse hath interest in :
There is not worn that lace, purl, knot, or pin,
But is the poet's matter ; and he must,
When he is furious, love, although not lust.
Be then content, your daughters and your wives,
If they be fair and worth it, have their lives
Made longer by our praises ; or, if not,
Wish you had foul ones, and deformed got,
Curst in their cradles, or there chang'd by elves,
So to be sure you do enjoy, yourselves.
Yet keep those up in sackcloth too, or leather,
For silk will draw some sneaking songster thither.
It is a rhyming age, and verses swarm
At every stall ; the city cap's a charm.
But I who live, and have lived twenty year,
Where I may handle silk as free, and near,
As any mercer, or the whale-bone man,
That quilts those bodies I have leave to span ;
Have eaten with the beauties, and the wits,
And braveries of court, and felt their fits
Of love and hate ; and came so nigh to know
Whether their faces were their own or no :
It is not likely I should now look down
Upon a velvet petticoat, or a gown,
Whose like I have known the tailor's wife put on,
To do her husband's rites in, ere 'twere gone
Home to the customer : his letchery
Being the best clothes still to pre-occupy.
Put a coach-mare in tissue, must I horse
Her presently ? or leap thy wife, of force,
When by thy sordid bounty she hath on
A gown of what was the comparison ?
So I might doat upon thy chairs and stools,
That are like cloth'd : must I be of those fools
Of race accounted, that no passion have,
But when thy wife, as thou conceiv'st, is brave ?
Then ope thy wardrobe, think me that poor groom
That, from the footman, when he was become
An officer there, did make most solemn love
To every petticoat he brush'd, and glove
He did lay up ; and would adore the shoe
Or slipper was left off, and kiss it too ;
Court every hanging gown, and after that
Lift up some one, and do — I'll tell not what.
Thou didst tell me, and wert o'erjoyed to peep
In at a hole, and see these actions creep
From the poor wretch, which though he plaid in prose,
He would have done in verse, with any of those
Wrung on the withers by Lord Love's despite,
Had he the faculty to read and write !
Such songsters there are store of ; witness he
That chanc'd the lace, laid on a smock, to see,
And straightway spent a sonnet ; with that other
That, in pure madrigal, unto his mother
Commended the French hood and scarlet gown
The lady may'ress pass'd in through the town,
Unto the Spittle sermon. O what strange
Variety of silks were on the Exchange !
Or in Moor-fields, this other night, sings one !
Another answers, 'las ! those silks are none,
In smiling l' envoy, as he would deride
Any comparison had with his Cheapside ;
And vouches both the pageant and the day,
When not the shops, but windows do display
The stuffs, the velvets, plushes, fringes, lace,
And all the original riots of the place.
Let the poor fools enjoy their follies, love
A goat in velvet ; or some block could move
Under that cover, an old midwife's hat !
Or a close-stool so cased ; or any fat
Bawd, in a velvet scabbard ! I envý
None of their pleasures ; nor will I ask thee why
Thou art jealous of thy wife's or daughter's case ;
More than of either's manners, wit, or face !
Here is Jonson's most famous lyric, actually a song
Song to Celia
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!
Jonson is at his conversational best and most brilliant in his plays, especially in Volpone, a wicked satire on wealth. Volpone pretends to be dying in order to squeeze as much money and favors out of his presumed heirs as he can. Corvino (the carrion-crow) has a beautiful wife--the Celia of the poem above--and Volpone decides he must have her. Corvino agrees. Here he drags her in, under suspicion and pronounces his materialist creed to the poor honorable wife who thinks her husband is only pretending to act as pimp in order to test her virtue. There is nothing in Shakespeare of this earthy sagacity, all done by cutting against the grain:
VOLPONE'S CHAMBER.--VOLPONE ON HIS COUCH.
MOSCA SITTING BY HIM.
ENTER CORVINO, FORCING IN CELIA.
CORV: Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,
Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.
It must be done. Nor would I move't, afore,
Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,
That might deny me.
CEL: Sir, let me beseech you,
Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt
My chastity, why, lock me up for ever:
Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,
Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.
CORV: Believe it, I have no such humour, I.
All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad;
Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourself
Obedient, and a wife.
CEL: O heaven!
CORV: I say it,
Do so.
CEL: Was this the train?
CORV: I've told you reasons;
What the physicians have set down; how much
It may concern me; what my engagements are;
My means; and the necessity of those means,
For my recovery: wherefore, if you be
Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.
CEL: Before your honour?
CORV: Honour! tut, a breath:
There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term
Invented to awe fools. What is my gold
The worse, for touching, clothes for being look'd on?
Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch,
That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat
With others' fingers; only knows to gape,
When you do scald his gums; a voice; a shadow;
And, what can this man hurt you?
CEL [ASIDE.]: Lord! what spirit
Is this hath enter'd him?
CORV: And for your fame,
That's such a jig; as if I would go tell it,
Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it,
But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow,
Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself,
(If you'll proclaim't, you may,) I know no other,
Shall come to know it.
CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing?
Will they be blind or stupid?
CORV: How!
CEL: Good sir,
Be jealous still, emulate them; and think
What hate they burn with toward every sin.
CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,
I would not urge you. Should I offer this
To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood
That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints,
Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth,
And were professed critic in lechery;
And I would look upon him, and applaud him,
This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary,
A pious work, mere charity for physic,
And honest polity, to assure mine own.
CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?
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No face, no hand, proportion, line or air
Of beauty, but the muse hath interest in :
There is not worn that lace, purl, knot, or pin,
But is the poet's matter ; and he must,
When he is furious, love, although not lust."
I wonder why Jonson did not turn out to be the great enduring poet his contemporary obtained. He of course had the same subjects available, knew the sources of inspiration and understood his craft. It is said that when he and Shakespear were together, Jonson did most of the talking while the other listened and said little. In the middle ages the great scientist shared the same end as the craftsmen, philosophers and theologians, in that they cultivated the ability to marvel. Awestruck in the presence of another's talent or insight, the ability to see deeper into this mystery is something I suspect Shakespear had to a greater degree than Jonson, although I think both had it in abundance.
Here is Jonson's most famous lyric, actually a song
Song to Celia
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not wither'd be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!
Jonson was certainly the most highly regarded poet and dramatist of his day and the most influential. There are many ways in which Shakespeare is more powerful and more direct, but "caparisons don't become a young woman," as another playwright observed. Part of what spoils Jonson for moderns is his topicality--Shakespeare responds indirectly, usually, to the problems of his time, whereas Jonson is more direct. Jonson is also vastly more erudite, which attracted aspiring young writers of his day but not the witless igoramuses who populate English departments these days. For power, I prefer Shakespeare, but for wit, Jonson. I don't really like choosing.
Dr. Fleming,
Oh, I think Jonson is probably much more popular in English depts. today although I doubt either is paid much attention except as dutiful requiremnts. At least Jonson was of more concern when I was attending college. Shakespear at the time had been taken over by the academics in the drama dept. who had substituted their own perversions for his greatness. Milton was hardly read at all. But what these exhibitionists think or once thought is not as important to me as what the tradition says and for great poets, there are only a few, Shakespear is and Jonson is not. Although as you say for the times in which they lived looking forward, it would have seemed otherwise. Drink to Me Only was a song that we all learned to sing when I was an undegraduate and reminding me of it here, makes me dislike choosing as well.
"Fathers and husbands, I do claim a right
In all that is call'd lovely ; "
I am reminded of a scene from my furious youth, probably 1970 or '71.
One night, passing through the dining room of a classy restaurant in which a long table running the length of the room was occupied by one party, likely an extended family, well dressed for some formal occasion, my eye caught on a vision seated one place down from the table's head.
She wore a fitted jacket over a white blouse, her hair was in a neatly combed wave, and she held herself upright, listening, not talking, though there was wit as well as beauty in that face. I sensed that she was the product of a breeding and of a class well above any of the bohemians and barflys of my acquaintance from the bars just down the street. But she met my eye, held it steadily and just a heartbeat shy of provocatively long, and then, under the looks from her female companions, dropped her gaze to her plate. And blushed.
I continued brazenly to hold my stare as I walked the length of the table, feeling the rising heat of the men and scorning it. As I reached the door at the far end of the table, one gent had had enough, and called out "Why don't you take a picture while you're at it?" Seizing my moment to "claim a right", I stopped, strolled back to the middle of the table, found her face again, and said to all, but especially to her:
"I wish I was an artist, so I could paint her portrait."
As I left, my beloved was looking up at me again, and though she was clearly embarrassed, I am certain there was the beginning of a smile on her lips.
Did I hit a home run, or just a long, foul, ball? Did I love, or lust? Was it lust that made her blush, and love that made me brave?
But thou thereon didst only breathe,
And sent'st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee!
I almost hate to do this because it is not quite fair but does illustrate two poets versifying about a similar subject. The verse above rings the bell in my opnion while the verse below makes a similar point with less melody and perhaps just as much admiration. Some will say it is a matter of subjective taste as to which is best but I think it is more than that but can't really explain why.
'When I was just as far as I could walk
From here to-day,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower
I heard you talk.
Don't say I didn't, for I heard you say--
You spoke from that flower on the window sill-
Do you remember what it was you said?'
'First tell me what it was you thought you heard.'
'Having found the flower and driven a bee away,
I leaned my head
And holding by the stalk,
I listened and I thought I caught the word--
What was it? Did you call me by my name?
Or did you say--
Someone said "Come" -- I heard it as I bowed.'
'I may have thought as much, but not aloud.'
"Well, so I came.'
VOLPONE'S CHAMBER.--VOLPONE ON HIS COUCH.
MOSCA SITTING BY HIM.
ENTER CORVINO, FORCING IN CELIA.
CORV: Nay, now, there is no starting back, and therefore,
Resolve upon it: I have so decreed.
It must be done. Nor would I move't, afore,
Because I would avoid all shifts and tricks,
That might deny me.
CEL: Sir, let me beseech you,
Affect not these strange trials; if you doubt
My chastity, why, lock me up for ever:
Make me the heir of darkness. Let me live,
Where I may please your fears, if not your trust.
CORV: Believe it, I have no such humour, I.
All that I speak I mean; yet I'm not mad;
Nor horn-mad, see you? Go to, shew yourself
Obedient, and a wife.
CEL: O heaven!
CORV: I say it,
Do so.
CEL: Was this the train?
CORV: I've told you reasons;
What the physicians have set down; how much
It may concern me; what my engagements are;
My means; and the necessity of those means,
For my recovery: wherefore, if you be
Loyal, and mine, be won, respect my venture.
CEL: Before your honour?
CORV: Honour! tut, a breath:
There's no such thing, in nature: a mere term
Invented to awe fools. What is my gold
The worse, for touching, clothes for being look'd on?
Why, this is no more. An old decrepit wretch,
That has no sense, no sinew; takes his meat
With others' fingers; only knows to gape,
When you do scald his gums; a voice; a shadow;
And, what can this man hurt you?
CEL [ASIDE.]: Lord! what spirit
Is this hath enter'd him?
CORV: And for your fame,
That's such a jig; as if I would go tell it,
Cry it on the Piazza! who shall know it,
But he that cannot speak it, and this fellow,
Whose lips are in my pocket? save yourself,
(If you'll proclaim't, you may,) I know no other,
Shall come to know it.
CEL: Are heaven and saints then nothing?
Will they be blind or stupid?
CORV: How!
CEL: Good sir,
Be jealous still, emulate them; and think
What hate they burn with toward every sin.
CORV: I grant you: if I thought it were a sin,
I would not urge you. Should I offer this
To some young Frenchman, or hot Tuscan blood
That had read Aretine, conn'd all his prints,
Knew every quirk within lust's labyrinth,
And were professed critic in lechery;
And I would look upon him, and applaud him,
This were a sin: but here, 'tis contrary,
A pious work, mere charity for physic,
And honest polity, to assure mine own.
CEL: O heaven! canst thou suffer such a change?
"The devil is an ass."
I suppose it's arguable that I behaved as an ass, so it's nice to have the devil to blame, but I don't think I did. I'm actually rather fond of this youthful improvisational outburst. I was completely poleaxed by this elegant beauty unexpectedly appearing in the midst of the garish nightlife of that neighborhood. Her dress and bearing, not to mention the look she gave me, were tailor made to inflame the passion of a working class romantic. Then there was the matter of her being enveloped in that familial cocoon; so much ostentatious protection had to be challenged – a right had to be claimed – and I did so, rather handily, I think.
Gilbert Jacobi,
Traditionally the notion has been that a man will take the most beautiful woman he can for his wife. As St.. Thomas Aquinas noticed, "No man falls in love with a woman unless he is first delighted by her beauty." The understanding of all this is in "beauty" and "taking." I think this poetic conversation in VOLPONE'S CHAMBER gives some insight to both aspects. Never having met you but simply reading your earnest posts for a few years, I would view your actions as more chivalrous than romantic. The folks most moderns label romantic were reactionarys who knew the soul of man was larger than three pounds of grey matter or brain matter. A man who is all heart is perhaps a better man, in my opinion, than the man who is all brain but the best have always possessed both qualities and cultivated them towards the art of living well. I always suspect you, as well as most Chronicles readers, of being tempted by that politically incorrect crime.
I will admit that I don't actually understand all of "The Elegy." I get the general gist of the poem, but somewhere about two-thirds down I simply lose the details of what Ben Jonson is saying. I've read it over and over and it still hasn't quite clicked. I get the idea that it might border on being a little risqué, and that he is in general having fun with the idea of poetry, beauty, clothing, women, husbands, and jealousy, but I'm too dense to actually follow it all the way to the end. Maybe it's just my short attention span. I will keep working at it.
The lyric I enjoyed, and I do remember having seen it before. I had no idea it came from a play. The actual dialogue from the play was great, and for me this whole "conversational poetry" borders on mysticism. It's like verbal alchemy in my head - poetry is one thing, dialogue another, how can the two exist at the same time? When I read the dialogue out loud, it doesn't sound like poetry but it does. And it sounds like dialogue, but it doesn't. I'm too feeble to articulate any more exactly, but Mr. Jonson is so good at keeping the rhythm of the lines from being stilted, keeping them running over each other, breaking them in the middle, that it comes out naturally when spoken. However natural, though, I can hear how it's not the same as regular speech, although maybe that's because modern speech patterns involve a plethora of "ums", "likes" and "you knows."
Regardless, it's a long way away from the first example of "conversational poetry" that was posted last week.
And, completely off topic, I can't help but say three cheers for Ben Johnson, my favorite cowboy!
Mr. Reavis,
I was happy just promoting myself from ass to romantic, and now you bump me all the way up to chivalrous!
Thanks for your attentive readership and words of encouragement.
Mr. Cornell,
You write: "When I read the dialogue out loud, it doesn't sound like poetry but it does. And it sounds like dialogue, but it doesn't. I'm too feeble to articulate any more exactly, but Mr. Jonson is so good at keeping the rhythm of the lines from being stilted, keeping them running over each other, breaking them in the middle, that it comes out naturally when spoken. However natural, though, I can hear how it's not the same as regular speech,..."
I think you've come up with a pretty good explanation and description of how good poetry works, especially in the form of the drama. The fact that we have trouble telling the difference between natural spoken language and what Jonson wrote is what makes a play work. It allows for what is called the suspension of disbelief, that is, where the reader and audience come to the point where they stop seeing what's on stage or page as artificial and start to believe or at least respond emotionally as if it's real life.