Part 1 — AN ODE TO HIMSELF.
Reading edition
Where dost Thou careless lie Buried in ease and sloth? Knowledge that sleeps, doth die; And this security, It is the common moth That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both. Are all the Aonian1 springs Dried up? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius'2 harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings; Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies3 defac'd? If hence4 thy silence be, As 'tis too just a cause, Let this thought quicken thee: Minds that are great and free Should not on fortune pause; 'Tis crown enough to virtue5 still, her own applause. What though the greedy fry Be taken with false baits Of worded balladry, And think it poesy? They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits. Then take in hand thy lyre; Strike in thy proper strain; With Japhet's line,6 aspire Sol's chariot for new fire, To give the world again: Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.7 And, since our dainty age Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page To that strumpet the stage; But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof.8
NOTES.
This poem is found in the collection of miscellaneous pieces, by Ben Jonson, entitled "Underwoods." The poet reproaches himself for his own indolence.
"Virtue is her own reward."—Dryden, Tyrannic Love.
"Virtue, a reward to itself."—Walton, Compleat Angler.
"Virtue is its own reward."—Prior, Imitations of Horace.