At morn and even, shades are longest; At noon they are or short or none: So men at weakest, they are strongest, But grant us perfect, they're not known. Say, are not women truly, then, Styled but the shadows of us men? Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 188. The Triumph SEE the Chariot at hand here of Love, Wherein my Lady rideth! Each that draws is a swan or a dove, And well the car Love guideth. As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamour'd do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride. Do but look on her eyes, they do light All that Love's world compriseth! Do but look on her hair, it is bright As Love's star when it riseth! Do but mark, her forehead's smoother Than words that soothe her; And from her arch'd brows such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow Before rude hands have touch'd it? Have you mark'd but the fall of the snow Before the soil hath smutch'd it? Have you felt the wool of beaver, Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier, Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she! Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 189. An Elegy THOUGH beauty be the mark of praise, And yours of whom I sing be such As not the world can praise too much, Yet 'tis your Virtue now I raise. A virtue, like allay so gone Throughout your form as, though that move And draw and conquer all men's love, This subjects you to love of one. Wherein you triumph yet--because 'Tis of your flesh, and that you use The noblest freedom, not to choose Against or faith or honour's laws. But who should less expect from you? In whom alone Love lives again: By whom he is restored to men, And kept and bred and brought up true. His falling temples you have rear'd, The wither'd garlands ta'en away; His altars kept from that decay That envy wish'd, and nature fear'd: And on them burn so chaste a flame, With so much loyalty's expense, As Love to acquit such excellence Is gone himself into your name. And you are he--the deity To whom all lovers are design'd That would their better objects find; Among which faithful troop am I-- Who as an off'ring at your shrine Have sung this hymn, and here entreat One spark of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine. Which if it kindle not, but scant Appear, and that to shortest view; Yet give me leave to adore in you What I in her am grieved to want! allay] alloy. Ben Jonson. 1573-1637 190. A Farewell to the World FALSE world, good night! since thou hast brought That hour upon my morn of age; Henceforth I quit thee from my thought, My part is ended on thy stage.