Nothing could have my love o'erthrown If thou hadst still continued mine; Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, I might perchance have yet been thine. But thou thy freedom didst recall That it thou might elsewhere enthral: And then how could I but disdain A captive's captive to remain? When new desires had conquer'd thee And changed the object of thy will, It had been lethargy in me, Not constancy, to love thee still. Yea, it had been a sin to go And prostitute affection so: Since we are taught no prayers to say To such as must to others pray. Yet do thou glory in thy choice-- Thy choice of his good fortune boast; I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice To see him gain what I have lost: The height of my disdain shall be To laugh at him, to blush for thee; To love thee still, but go no more A-begging at a beggar's door. Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 184. Hymn to Diana QUEEN and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright. Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright. Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night-- Goddess excellently bright. Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 185. 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! Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 186. Simplex Munditiis STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast; Still to be powder'd, still perfumed: Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free: Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 187. The Shadow FOLLOW a shadow, it still flies you; Seem to fly it, it will pursue: So court a mistress, she denies you; Let her alone, she will court you. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men?