SillStil to be neat, stil to be drest
As if you were going to a feast
Stil to be pawdred, stil perfum'd
Lady it is to be presumd
Wher arts hid causes are not found
Al is not Sweet, all is not sound
Give me a looke give me a face
That make simpicity a grace
Robs loosly hanging hair as free
Such swet neclets best pleases me
There all the adulterys of art
May please my eye but not my hart
By Boy,
in Epicoene (1.1.71-82),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 12
Cook Lawrick invited the divell his guest
and bid once in the Peake to dinner
where never freind had such a feast
provided h yet at the cost of a sinner
His stomacke was queasy he came thither coacht
the jogging causd some cruditys to rise
to help him hee cald for a puritan poacht
that use to turne h up the eggs off his eyes
And soe recover'd himself to his wish
he sat him downe to his drincke and to eat
promoter in plumbroth was his first dish
his owne privet chicken had no such meat
Six picled heart tailors shred and cut
Seamsters faire women fit for his pallet
with feathermen and perfumers all put
some 12 in charger to make a grand sallet
A rich fat userer in his marrow
by him on lawer and greene sawce
which use to eat 2 legs of a scarrow
and then goe and his mony case
Ther carbonaded and cookt with paines
was brought up a cloven sergaints face
the sawce was made of a yeomans braines
that had been cloven out with his owne mace
Two wasted sherrifes came next to the board
the feast had nothing been without them
both living and dead they were foxt and furd
ther chaines like sawsages hung about them
The next dish was the maior of ther towne
with a puddin of maintenance put in his belly
like a gouse in his feathers drest in his newold gowne
and cupple of hinch boys boyld for ielly BM at the moment the fact that this extract runs over two folios is not showing up on DEx [same song cont'd; bottom of page non-dramatic]
A London cookold hot from the spit
and when the carver him broken
the divill chops up his head at a bit
but the hornes were very nigh to have chockt him
Yet though with the meat he was much taken
up on a sudden hee sheifted his treancher
as soon as he spyd the baud and bacon
by by which you may know the divill is a wencher
The chine of a leacher to ther was roasted
with a plumpe youg whore's hanch and garlicke
a pander patitoes that had boasted
himself for a captaine yt never was warlike
A lusty fat pasty of a midwife hot
and for a colde bake dish in the story
a reverent painted lady was brought
was coffind in crust till she was hory
To those a overgrowne justice of peace
with a clarke like gyzard thrust under each arme
with a warnent for syppits laid in his owne grease
set over a chafingdish to be kept warme
The joywle of a iailor served for fish
a counstable soust vist vinegar by
two alder men lobsters a sleepe in a dish
a debuty tart and a churchwarden pye
All which devoured he then for a close
Did for a full draught of darby aall call
and heaves the huge vessel in to his nose
and sceast not till hee had druncke up all
BM What is the second word? for a moment I believed it was covfefe?
If I frely may discover
What may pl e ase me in my lover
I would have her faire and witty
Savouring more of court then Citty
A little proud but full of pitty
Light and humorous in her toying
Oft building hopes and soone destroying
Not too easy notnor too hard
All extreams I would have bard
She should be allowd her passions
Soe they were but usd as fashions
Sometime froward and frowning
Sometime sickly and then sowning
Every fitt with chang still crowning
Purly ieas iealous I would have her
Only constant when I crave her
Tis a virtue should not save her
Thus nor her delicats should cloy mee
Nor her peevishnese anoy mee
By Crispinus,
in Poetaster (2.3.135-144),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry e. 14, f. 21r
Who make a child now swadled to
proceed Man, & then shoot up in one beard, & weed
past 60 years: Or with 3 rusty swords, And help
of some few foot & half foot words Fight over
York & Lanc.rs long Wars, And in ye tiring house
bring wounds to scars.
By Prologue,
in Every Man in his Humour (Prologue.6-12),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Sancroft 29, p. 68
No Chorus wafts you
ore ye seas, Nor creakḡ Throne comes down the
Boies to please; Nor nimble sqb is seen, to make
afeard the Gentlewomen; nor rolld Bullet heard
To say it thunders, nor tempestuous drum rum
bles to tell you, when the storm doth come.
By Prologue,
in Every Man in his Humour (Prologue.15-20),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Sancroft 29, p. 68
Amorphus his Mistris Glove
Thou more then sweet glove
Vnto my more sweet Love
Suffer me to store with kisses,
This empty lodging yt now misses
The your rosy hand yt have the
Thou art soft but teat was softer
Cupids sets hard kist it often
Thine ire he did his mothers dowes
Supposing Her the Queene of Loves
That was thy Mistris
Best of Gloves.
By Amorphus,
in Cynthia's Revels (4.3.252-263),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 142, f. 45v
Apollo if I ever hung
Elaborate Peans on thy golden shrine,
Or sung thy triumphes in a lofty straine
Fit for a theatre of Gods to heare.
And thou sweet Majas joy lb inside canonical here
Whose statue I oft with discolourd flowers Have deckt: now favour me. &c.
By Crites,
in Cynthia's Revels (4.6.59-69),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 142, f. 45v
If I freely may discouer
what please me in my louer
I would have her fayre and wittye
Savoringe more of Courte then Cittie
A little proude, but full of pittye
Light and humerous in her toyinge
oft buildinge hopes and oft destroinge
Nor to easye, nor to hard
All extreames, I would have bard /.
By Crispinus,
in Poetaster (2.2.135-144),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 117, f. 30v
She should be allowed her passions
So they wear but vsde as fashions
sometymes froward and then frowninge
Euery fitt wth change still crowninge.
Purelie Iealouse I would have her
Then onlye constant when I craue her
Tis a vertue should not saue her
Thus nor her Delicates should cloye me
Nor her pevishnes annoye me /.
Finis
By Hermogenes,
in Poetaster (2.2.150-159),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS Rawlinson poetry 117, f. 30v
By Ben Jonson
Come Sweet Caelia let us prove
While we may ye sports of Love
Time will not be ors for ever
He at length or blisse will sever
Spen not then his giftes in vaine
Suns that set, may rise againe.
But if we once loose this light
It's wth us perpetuall night
Why should we defer or joys
Fame, & Rumour, are but toyes.
Cannote we delude the eyes?
Of a few poore household spyes.
And his easier eares beguile,
Soe remov'd by many a mile.
It's no sinne loves fruits to steale,
But the sweet thefts to reveale.
To be taken, to be seneseene>
These hath crimes accounted beene.
By Volpone,
in Volpone (3.7.164-182),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 10309, f.117r
20.
ye foole is ye very justice of peace in the play, and can commit whome hee will and
what hee will, errour absurdity, as ye toy takes him, I and noe man say
blacke is his eye but laugh at him.
By Tattle,
in The Staple of News (Intermean1.18-19),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 69
33
Lady I have my desire, to beehold
yt youth and shape, wth in my dreames and wakes
I have soe oft ↄtemplate, and felt
warme in my veines, and native as my blood. / a barbers shop ye house of fame.
By Pecunia,
in The Staple of News (2.5.50-53),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 69
43
your meat should bee servd in wth curious dances,
and set upon ye boord wth virgin hands,
tund to their voices; not a dish remoovd,
but to ye musicke, not a drop of wine,
mixt, wth his water, wth out harmony.
By Cymbal,
in The Staple of News (3.2.230-234),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 69
some hee dry- dishes, some mossesmoates round wth brothes
mounts marrow-bones, cuts fifty angled custards,
reares bulwarke pies, and for his outer- workes
he raiseth ramparts of immortall crust;
and teacheth all the tacticks in one dinner:
what ranks, what files, to put his dishes in;
ye whole art military. then hee knowes
ye influence of ye stars upon his meates
hee has nature in a pot, bove all ye chymists
he is an architect an ingineer
a souldier, a phisitian, a philosopher,
a gerall mathematician.
By Lickfinger,
in The Staple of News (4.2.23-37),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 69v
59.
and your Mr Courtier wth all your fly-blowne projects,
and lookes out of ye politicks, your shut faces,
and reservud questions and answers that you game with as
ist a cleare buisinesse? will it mannage well?
my name must not bee used else. here, t’will dash,
your buisiness hath received a taint, give off,
I may not prostitute my selfe. tut, tut
yt little dust i can blow of at pleasur's.
heres noe such mountaine, yet, ithe whole worke
but a light purse may level. I will tyde
this affaire / for you; give it freight and passage.
and such mint-phrase; as tis ye worst of canting,
by how much affects ye sense, it has not
By Canter,
in The Staple of News (4.4.63-75),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70
an old reverende smocke. an old woman. and hee yt maryes such a one doth bind himselfe to a dead carcasse thou must come unto them as thou to must unto a tombe wth a torch or three handfull of linke steaming hot, and soe thou maist hap to make them feele thee marry an old thing?
By Quarlous,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.3.50-63),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70v
I should rather desire of fate canst thou endure to heare 15 sermons
a weeke for her, and such course and lowde ones, as some of them must bee. i would een desire
of fate yt i might dwell in a drumme, and take my sustenance wth an old broken to= bacco -pipe and a straw. dost thou ever thinke to bring thine eares or stomacke, to ye patience
of a drie grace, as long as ye table-cloth, and droand out til all ye meate on ye board has
forgot, it was yt day in ye kitchin. or to brooke ye noise made in question of predes=tinacō n, by ye good labourers and painefull eaters, assembled together, put to them by ye matron your spouse; who moderates wth a cup of wine ever and anon, and a sentence
out of Knox beetweene? or ye ppetual spitting before and after a sober drawne
exhortacōn of 6 houres, whose better part was ye hum-ha-hum: or to heare praiers
groand out over thy iron chaffs, as if they were charmes to breake’em. and all
this to suffer for the hope of 2 apostle- spoones, and a cup to eat a candle in.
By Quarlous,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.3.65-78),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70v
country schoolemasters doe nothing wth gentlemens sonns but runn up and downe ye country wth them
to begg pudding and cakebred of their tenants, they teach’em nothing but to sing catches
and repeate rattle bladder rattle
By Wasp,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.4.55-58),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70v
hee will name you all ye signes over, as hee goes, aloud, and where hee spies a parrot,
or monky, there hee is pitchd, wth all ye little long coates about him male and fe= male; noe getting him away! I thought hee would ha’ runn mad o’the blacke
boy in bucklers-bury, yt takes ye scuryscurvy, roguy tobacco there.
By Wasp,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.4.86-90),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70v
Waspe on his Mr a young silly-country esquire.
hee is such a ravener after fruit / you will not
beeleeve what a coile I hade t’other day, to compound a business betwixt a caterne -
peare woman and him, about snatching!
By Wasp,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.5.92-94),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 70v
Pur.
I would bee sati s fied of you, brother, religiously wise whether a widdow of ye
sanctified assembly may ↄmit ye act of eating ye uncleane beast calld pigg
wth out offence to ye weaker sort.
By Purecraft,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.6.36-38),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 71v
verily it may bee eaten, very excee= ding well eaten, but in ye faire and as a bartholmew pig, it cannot be eaten, for ye
very calling it a bartholmew - pigg, and to eat it soe, is a spice of idolatry, and you
make ye faire, noe better then one of ye high place.
By Busy,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.6.42-45),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 71v
however now I thinke of it, thou it hath a face of offence
a great face, a foule face, yet yt face may have a vaile put over it, and be shad-
dowed as it were, it may bee eaten and in ye fayre I take it, in a booth ye tents
of ye wicked: ye place is not much not very much wee may bee religious in midst
of ye ꝑphane, soe it bee eaten swith a reformed mouth, with sobriety, and humbleness
By Busy,
in Bartholomew Fair (1.6.56-60),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 71v
a leane wench hath a bony rumpe sticking out like ye ace of spades, or
ye point of a partizan, and will soe grate him wth their hips and shoulders they
were as good lye wth an hurdle.
By Ursula,
in Bartholomew Fair (2.5.80-82),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 72r
48.
ye puritan saies long haire is a banner of pride and bottle ale is the is ye diet drinke of Sathan, devised to putt us up, and tobacco to keepe us in mist and errour
By Busy,
in Bartholomew Fair (3.6.22-26),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 72r
peace wth thy apocryphal wares, thou ꝑfane publican. thy bells, thy dragons
and thy tobies doggs. thy hobby horse is a very Idoll and thou ye Nebuchadnezzar
of ye faire yt sets it up for children to fall downe and worship.
By Busy,
in Bartholomew Fair (3.6.23-26),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Additional MS 22608, f. 72r
A Prologue to Catiline, to be
Merrily Spoaken by Mrs Nell Guin:
in an Amazonian Habit
A woman's prologue! that is vent'rous news:
But we a Poet wanting, crav'd a. Muse.
Why should or brains lye fallow, as if they
Without his fire, ware meer Promethean clay?
In natuers Long-song wee may bear or parts
Allthoug wee want choise Descant, from ye Arts,
Amongst Musicians: so the Philomel
May in wild notes, though not in rules excell
And when i'th weaker vessel wit doeth lye;
Thoug into froath, it will work out & flye
But Gentlemen, you know or formall way
Allthoug we're sure 'tis false, yet wee must say
Nay Pish, nay Fye, in troath it is not good
When wee ye while think it not understood:
Catilines Conspiracy: by B. JohnsonSyllas Ghost
Dost thou not feel me Rome? not yet? is night
so heavy on ye, and my weight so light?
Can Sylla's Ghost arise within thy walls,
Less threatning, then an earth-quak, ye quick falls
Of ye & thine? shake not ye frighted heads
Of thy steep towers? Or shrink to their first beds?
Or as their ruine ye proud Tyber fills,
Make yt swell up and drown thy seven proud hills?
What sleep is this doth seize ye, so like death,
And is it not? Wake feel her in my breath:
Behold I come, sent from ye stygian sound,
As a dire vapour yt hath cleft ye ground,
T'engender with ye night, & blast ye day:
Or like a Pestilence that shoud display
Infections throug ye world, which thus I doe
By Sulla's Ghost,
in Catiline (1.1.1-15),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 22r
Catiline
It is decree'd. Nor shall thy Fate, O Rome,
Resist my vow. Though hills were set on hills,
And seas met seas, to guard ye; I would through:
I'd plow up rocks, steep as ye Alpes, in dust;
And lave ye Tyrrhene waters into clouds;
But I would reach thy head, thy head proud city.
The ills that I have done can not be safe,
But by attempting greatr; and I feel
A spirit in me, chides my sluggish hands
And says, they have bin innocent too long.
Was I a man breed great as Rome her selfe?
One, form'd for all her honours, all her glorys?
Equall to all her titles? That could stand
close up, with Atlas; and sustaine her name,
As strong, as he doeth heaven! and was I,
Of all her brood, mark'd out for ye repulse
By her no voyce, whom I stood candidate,
To be commander in ye Pontick war?
I will hereaftr call her step-dame ever.
If shee can loose her nature, I can loose
My pyety; & in her stony entrailes
Dig me a seat, where I will live again.
The labour of her womb, & be a burden,
weightier then all ye prodigies, & Monster,
That shee hath teem'd with, since she first knew Man.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (1.1.73-97),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 22v
Cat: speakin to Aurelia of Cethag'
Cethag'
Whose valour I have turn'd into his poyson;
And prays'd so into daring, as he would
Goe on upon ye Gods, kiss lightning, wrest
At face of a full cloud, & stand his ire:
when I would bid him move
By Catiline,
in Catiline (1.1.140-146),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 22v
Lentul' Cethag' & Catiline
at their appointed meeting
It is, me thinks, a morning full of Fate!
It riseth slowly, as her sollen care
Had all ye weights of sleep & death hung at her!
Shee is not rosy-fingred, but swoln black!
Her face, is like a water turn'd to bloud,
And her sick head is bound about with clouds,
As if shee threatned night ere noon of day!
It does not look as it would have a hail,
Or health, wish'd in it, as on other morns.
By Lentulus,
in Catiline (1.1.191-201),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23r
Cethagus seeing yt ye rest were not come early as was appointed Paulo post
Come, we all sleep; are mere dormice; Flies.
A little less than dead: more dulness hangs
on us, then on the morn. We are spirit-bound
In ribs of ice: Our whole blouds are one stone;
Though they burn, hot as feavers to our states.
By Cethegus,
in Catiline (1.1.210-227),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23r
O ye dayes
Of Scylla's sway, when ye free sword took leave
Slaughtr bestrid ye streets, and strech'd him selfe
To seeme more huge; whilst to his steyned thighs
The gore he drew flow'd up: and caried down
Whole heaps of limbs, and bodyes, through his arch
By Cethegus,
in Catiline (1.1.229-238),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23v
The rugged Charon fainted
And ask'd a navy rather then a Boat
To ferry over ye sad world that came:
The maws and deans of bests, could not receive
The bodys, that those souls were frighted from
And e'en ye graves were fill'd with ym yet living
Whose flight and feare, had mix'd ym with ye dead.
By Cethegus,
in Catiline (1.1.248-253),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23v
Cataline & Cethegus, talking aftCatilines disapoyntment of Consulship
Repulse upon repulse? An in-mate Consul>
That I could reach ye axell where ye pins are,
Which bolt this frame; that I might pull 'hem out
And pluck all into chaos with my selfe.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (3.1.192-200),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23v
Cicero after his discourse wth FulviaCatilines councells to him
Is there a heaven; and gods, and can it be
They should so slowly hear, so slowly see!
Hath Jove no thunder? Or is Jove become
Stupid as thou art? O near-wretched Rome,
When both thy senate, and thy Gods do sleep,
And neither thine, nor their own states do keep!
What will awake thee, heaven? What can excite
Thine anger if this practice be to Light?
His former drifts partake of former crimes
But this last plot was only Catilines
O that it ware his last. But he before
Had safely doen so much, he'll still dar more.
By Cicero,
in Catiline (3.2.1-11),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23v
Cicero after his discourse wth Fulvia & Curius concerning ye conspiracy
O Rome in what a sickness art thou fallen!
How dangerous and deadly! when thy head
Is drown'd in sleep, and all thy body feavery!
No noise, no pulling, no vexation wakes thee,
Thy Lethargy is such: or if by chance,
Thou heavest thy eye-lids up, thou do'st forget
Sooner then thou wert told, thy proper danger
I did unreverently, to blame the gods,
By Cicero,
in Catiline (3.2.204-211),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 23v
Who wake for thee, though thou soneer to thy selfe
Is it not strange, thou shouldst be so diseas'd
And so secure; But more that thy first symptomes
Of such a Malady should not rise but
From aney worthy Member, but a base
And common strumpet, worthless to be nam'd
A hair or part of ye! Think think hereafte r
How much ye Gods upbraid thy foule neglect.
They could have wrought by nobler ways have struck
Thy foes with foarked lightning; or ram'd thunder,
Thrown hills upon them in ye act: have sent
Death like a damp to all their families;
Or caus'd their consciences to Burt 'hem'em But
when they will shew ye, what thou art, and make
A scornfull diffrenc twixt their power & there
They help the by such aids, as geese, & Harlots
By Cicero,
in Catiline (3.2.212-230),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 24v
Catiline to Aurelia Exhorting her to perswadeye citizens wives to draw yr husbands into ye plot
Promise 'hem states & Empires,
And men for lovers made of better clay,
Then ever the old potter Titan knew.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (3.3.51-53),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 24v
Catiline to Lentul
Seize Pompeys sonne alive all else cut off
As tarquin did ye poppy heads or mowers
A Feild of Thistles, or else up, as plough
Do barren lands; and strike together flints
And clods; ye ungratefull senate and ye people
May weigh with yours though horrour leapt her selfe
Into ye scale; but in yr violent acts,
The fall of torrents, and ye noise of tempests
The boyling of Charybdis: ye Seas wildness.
The eating force of flames, and wings of winds,
Be all outwrought by yr transcendant Furies
It had bin done eare this had I bin consull
By Catiline,
in Catiline (3.3.153-167),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 24v
Catiline
May my brain
Resolve to water, and my bloud turn phlegme
My hands drop off, unworthy of my sword,
And that be inspired, of it selfe to rip.
My brest for my lost entrails when I leave
A soul that will not serve, and who will are
The same with slaves; such clay I dare not feare.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (3.3.250-256),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 25r
The Alobroges seeing diverse senators passing by trembling and quaking after ye thundring and lightning
Can these men fear? who are not only ours,
But ye worlds masters? then I see ye gods
upbraid our suffrings; or would humble them,
whose names we trembed at beyond ye alps:
of all yt pass I do not see a face
worthy a man, yt daers look up and stand;
One thunder out: but downward all like beasts
Running away from every flash is made.
The falling world could not deserve such baseness.
It is our base petitionary breath
That blows them to this greatness which this prick
would soon let out if wee ware bold and wretched;
When they have taken all we have or goods.
Crops, lands, and houses, they will leave us this.
A weapon and an arme will still be found.
Though naked left and lower then the ground.
By First Allobrox,
in Catiline (4.1.1-32),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 25r
Cethag seingye Alobrogi, who came for to helpe ye conspiracy
Can these or such be any aid to us?
Look they, as they ware built to shake ye world.
Or be of moment to or enterprize?
A thousand such as they are could not make
One atome of our souls. They should be men
Worth heavens fear, that looking up but thus
Would make Jove stand upon his guard and draw
Himself within his thunder; which amaz'd
He should discharge in vaine, & they unhurt.
Or if they near, like Capane and Thebes.
They should hang dead upon ye highest spires
And ask ye second bolt to be thrown down.
Why Lentul talke ye soe long? This time
Had bin enough t'have scatter'd all ye starrs
Despair of day on any light but ours.
By Cethegus,
in Catiline (4.5.40-55),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 25v
Catiline in his speech to his souldiers. Paulo post
The sword must both direct and cut a passage.
I only therefore wish ye when ye strike,
To have ye valours and your soules about ye
And think ye carry in your labouring hands
The things ye seek glory and liberty.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (5.4.24-28),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 25v
Methinks I see Death and ye Furies waiting
What wee will doe; & all ye heave at leisure
For ye great spectacle. Draw then yr swords.
And if our destiny envy our vertue
The honour of ye day, let us take care
To sel our selves at such a price as may
Undo ye world to buy us; and make fate
while shee tempt ours, fear her own estate.
By Catiline,
in Catiline (5.4.46-53),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 26r
Cethegus when he was condemned to Dye by ye consul
O ye whore fortune & her bauds ye Fates
That put these tricks on men that knew ye way
To death by a sword. Strangle me I may sleep:
I shall grow angry with ye god else.
By Cethegus,
in Catiline (5.5.181-184),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 26r
Petreus gives an account of ye Successe of ye battle. The End
The streights and needs of Catiline being such
As he must fight with one of ye two armies
That then had near inclos'd him. It pleas'd Fate
To make us ye object of his desperate choise
Wherein ye danger allmost peis'd ye honour.
And as he ris ye day grew black with him;
And Fate descended nearer to ye earth,
As if shee meant to hide ye name of things
Under her wings, and make ye world her quarry.
At this wee rous'd least one small minutes stay
Had left it to be enquir'd what Rome was.
And (as we ought) arm'd with ye confidence
Of our great cause, in form of battle stood.
Whilest Catiline came on, not with ye face
Of aney man but of a publique ruine:
His count'nance was a Civil war it selfe
And all his host had standing in their looks.
The palenesse of ye death that was to come.
Yet cried they out like vultures, and urge'd on
As if they would precipitate our Fates.
Nor staid wee longer for 'hem but himselfe
strooke ye first stroake, and with it fled a life.
which cuts it seemed a narrow neck of land
Had broke between two mighty seas and either
Flow'd into other. For so did ye slaughter:
And whirl'd about as when two violent tides
Meet and not yeald. The Furies stood on hills,
Circling ye place and trembling to see men
Do More then they: whilst pity left ye feild
Greiv'd for that side, that in so bad a cause.
They knew not what a crime their valour was
The sun stood still and was behind ye cloud
The battalle made seen sweating to drive up
His fright'd horse, whome still ye noise drove backward
And now had fierce Enyo like a flame
consum'd all it could reach, and then it selfe;
Had not ye fortune of ye common-wealth
Come Pallas like to every Roman thought.
Which Catiline seeing, and that now his troops
Cover'd ye earth they had fought on wth yr trunks
Ambitious of great fame to crow his ill
collected all his fury and ran in.
Arm'd with a glory high as his dispaire
into or battaile like a Libian Lyon
upon his Hunters scornefull of or weapons.
Careless of wounds, plucking down lives about him
Till he had circled in himselfe with death
Then fell hee too t'embrace it where it lay
And as in that rebellion 'gainst ye gods
Minerva houlding forth Medusa's head
One of ye gyant brethren felt himselfe
Grow marble at ye killing sight and now
Allmost made stoune began t'enquire what flint
what rock it was that crept through all his lims
And ere he could think more was that he fear'd
So Catiline, at ye sight of Rome in us
Became his tombe: yet did his looke retaine
Some of his fiercenesse, & his hand still mov'd
Ais if he laboured yet to grspe ye state
With those rebellious part.
By Petreius,
in Catiline (5.5.210-271),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 26r
Sejanus speaks.
by yu that fooles call gods
Hang all ye like with your prodigious signs
Fill earth with monsters, drop ye scorpion down
Out of ye Zodiack, or ye fiercer Lyon
shake off ye loosned globe from her long hinge
Rowle all ye world in darkness; and let loose
With forked fire and unpittyed dye
Who fears is worthy of calamity.
By Sejanus,
in Sejanus His Fall (5.1.390-399),
Ben Jonson
in British Library Sloane MS 161, f. 28r
" " "
hee will think & speak his thought, both
freely but as distant from deprauing any other mans merit, as proclayming his owne: hee hath a most ingenious & sweet spirit, a sharp
& seasond witt, a straight iudgmt & a strong mynde, he counts it his
pleasure to despise pleasures, & is more delighted wth good deeds theē goods.
By Mercury,
in Cynthia's Revels (2.3.101-107),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry d. 3, f. 40r
"
"
"
"
"
The tyme was once when wit drownd weLth: but now yro only barba=rism's. to haue witt & want. No matter now who in vertue excells. he that hath coyn hath all ꝑfection else
By Ovid,
in Poetaster (1.2.211-1.3.73),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry d. 3, f. 41v
Play: Iohns:
"
"
Goe goe meddle wth yro bed chamber onely, or rather wth yro bed in yro
chamber onelye, or rathr wth yowr wyffe in yro bed onely, or on my faith Ile not bee pleasd wth yow onelye.
By Chloe,
in Poetaster (2.1.91-93),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry d. 3, f.42r
Informrs
"
Princes yt
will but hear or giue accesse, To such officious spyes
can neur bee safeThey take in poyson wth an open ear. & free
frō danger becom slaues to fear.
By Maecenas,
in Poetaster (4.7.53-56),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry d. 3, f.42r
Tis a mad world
A wayward persons humor
Must receiu check, for then all obiect
Feed his greef & impatience
And thos affections in him are lyke powder,
Apt to inflame & wth eury little sparke
to blow up reason.
By Paulo,
in The Case is Altered (1.4.81-88),
Ben Jonson
in Bodleian Library MS English poetry d. 3, f. 80r