I now think love is rather deaf, than blind, For else it could not be, That she, Whom I adore so much, should so slight me, And cast my love behind: I'm sure my language was as sweet, And every close did meet In sentence of as subtle feet As hath the youngest he, That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree. Oh, but my conscious fears, That fly my thoughts between, Tell me that she hath seen My hundreds of gray hairs, Told seven and forty years, Read so much waist, as she cannot embrace My mountain belly and my rock face, As all these, through her eyes, have stopt her ears.
Ben Jonson - 1572-1637
On My First Son
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy. Seven years thou'wert lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by thy fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father now! For why Will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage, And, if no other misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, ask'd, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry. For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, As what he loves may never like too much.