Ben Jonson

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.

A third Cato has dropped from the skies.

A third Cato has dropped from the skies.

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . read more

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree.
. . . .
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk!

Hang sorrow, care 'll kill a cat.

Hang sorrow, care 'll kill a cat.