Ben Jonson

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast,
Still to read more

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast,
Still to be powder'd, all perfum'd.
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

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!

Bad men excuse their faults, good men will leave them.

Bad men excuse their faults, good men will leave them.

O what is it proud slime will not believe
Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised
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O what is it proud slime will not believe
Of his own worth, to hear it equal praised
Thus with the gods?

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.