Ben Jonson(1572–1637)

An Ode to Himself

Where dost thou careless lie

Buried in ease and sloth

Knowledge that sleeps doth die;

And this security,overconfidence

It is the common moth

That eats on wits and arts, and oft destroys them both.

Are all th' Aonian springs

Dried up Lies Thespia waste6

Doth Clarius' harp7 want strings,

That not a nymph 8 now sings;

Or droop they as disgraced,

To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies9 defaced

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause,

Let this thought quicken thee:

Minds that are great and free

Should not on fortune pause;

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry1

Be taken with false baits

Of worded balladry,

And think it poesypoetry

They die with their conceits,

And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre,

Strike in thy proper strain,

With Japhet's line,2 aspire

Sol's chariot3 for new fire

To give the world again;

Who aided him will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.4

And since our dainty age

Cannot endure reproof,

Make not thyself a page

To that strumpet the stage,

But sing high and aloof,

Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.