No More Learning

Ben Jonson, Epig. xiii.


303. TO APOLLO. A SHORT HYMN.

Phoebus! when that I a verse
Or some numbers more rehearse,
Tune my words that they may fall
Each way smoothly musical:
For which favour there shall be
Swans devoted unto thee.


304. A HYMN TO BACCHUS.

Bacchus, let me drink no more;
Wild are seas that want a shore.
When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up, for to please
Thee, that great cup Hercules:
Urge no more, and there shall be
Daffodils given up to thee.


306. ON HIMSELF.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay;
My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray,
My palmer's hat, my scallop's shell,
My cross, my cord, and all, farewell.
For having now my journey done,
Just at the setting of the sun,
Here I have found a chamber fit,
God and good friends be thanked for it,
Where if I can a lodger be,
A little while from tramplers free,
At my up-rising next I shall,
If not requite, yet thank ye all.
Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright
The fouler fiend and evil sprite
From scaring you or yours this night.


307. CASUALTIES.

Good things that come of course, far less do please
Than those which come by sweet contingencies.


308. BRIBES AND GIFTS GET ALL.

Dead falls the cause if once the hand be mute;
But let that speak, the client gets the suit.


309. THE END.

If well thou hast begun, go on fore-right;
_It is the end that crowns us, not the fight_.


310. UPON A CHILD THAT DIED.

Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.


312.