Ben Jonson

The gods
Grow angry with your patience. 'Tis their care,
And must be yours, that guilty men read more

The gods
Grow angry with your patience. 'Tis their care,
And must be yours, that guilty men escape not:
As crimes do grow, justice should rouse itself.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

The burnt child dreads the fire.

For a good poet's made, as well as born,
And such wast thou! Look how the father's face
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For a good poet's made, as well as born,
And such wast thou! Look how the father's face
Lives in his issue; even so the race
Of Shakespeare's mind and manner brightly shine
In his well-turned and true-filed lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance.

The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of read more

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.

In the hope to meet
Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.

In the hope to meet
Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.