6 A tell-tale in their company They never could endure, BEN JONSON. As 'rare Ben' chiefly shone as a dramatist, we need not recount at length the events of his life. He was born in 1574; his father, who had been a clergyman in Westminster, and was sprung from a Scotch family in Annandale, having died before his birth. His mother marrying a bricklayer, Ben was brought up to the same employment. Disliking this, he enlisted in the army, and served with credit in the Low Countries. When he came home, he entered St John's College, Cambridge; but his stay there must have been short, since he is found in London at the age of twenty, married, and acting on the stage. He began at the same time to write dramas. He was unlucky enough to quarrel with and kill another performer, for which he was committed to prison, but released without a trial. He resumed his labours as a writer for the stage; but having failed in the acting department, he forsook it for ever. His first hit was, 'Every Man in his Humour,' a play enacted in 1598, Shakspeare being one of the actors. His course afterwards was chequered. He quarrelled with Marston and Dekker,- he was imprisoned for some reflections on the Scottish nation in one of his comedies, -he was appointed in 1619 poet-laureate, with a pension of 100 marks,—he made the same year a journey to Scotland on foot, where he visited Drummond at Hawthornden, and they seem to have mutually loathed each other,―he fell into habits of intemperance, and acquired, as he said himself, 'A mountain belly and a rocky face.' His favourite haunts were the Mermaid, and the Falcon Tavern, Southwark. He was engaged in constant squabbles with his contemporaries, and died at last, in 1637, in miserably poor circumstances. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, under a square tablet, where one of his admirers afterwards inscribed the words, 'O rare Ben Jonson!' Of his powers as a dramatist we need not speak, but present our readers with some rough and racy specimens of his poetry. EPITAPH ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE. Underneath this sable hearse THE PICTURE OF THE BODY. Sitting, and ready to be drawn, Send these suspected helps to aid Yet something to the painter's view, Draw first a cloud, all save her neck, And men may think all light rose there. Then let the beams of that disperse TO PENSHURST. (FROM 'THE FOREST.') Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told; Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made At his great birth where all the Muses met. Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed: Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land, Thou hast thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, The early cherry with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come: The blushing apricot and woolly peach Hang on thy walls that every child may reach. And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; There's none that dwell about them wish them down; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty-handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring them, or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands; and whose baskets bear The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow Where comes no guest but is allow'd to eat Where the same beer, and bread, and selfsame wine That is his lordship's shall be also mine. And I not fain to sit (as some this day yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by, But gives me what I call, and lets me eat; With his brave son, the Prince; they saw thy fires Of thy Penates had been set on flame To entertain them; or the country came, With all their zeal, to warm their welcome here. What (great, I will not say, but) sudden cheer Did'st thou then make them! and what praise was heap'd On thy good lady then, who therein reap'd The just reward of her high housewifery; 257 |