Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis
Rhyme Scheme: A BBCCDDEEFFGGHHIIJJGG IIGGKKLLGGMMLLNOEEPP CQGGGGRRQQGGEESTGGUV EEQQWWXXVYQQGGUUYYGG ZA2A2A2GGGGGGB2C2Y| Madame | A |
| - | |
| VVhil'st that for which all vertue now is sold | B |
| And almost every vice almightie gold | B |
| That which to boote with hell is thought worth heaven | C |
| And for it life conscience yea soules are given | C |
| Toyles by grave custome up and downe the Court | D |
| To every squire or groome that will report | D |
| Well or ill only all the following yeere | E |
| Just to the waight their this dayes presents beare | E |
| While it makes huishers serviceable men | F |
| And some one apteth to be trusted then | F |
| Though never after whiles it gaynes the voyce | G |
| Of some grand peere whose ayre doth make rejoyce | G |
| The foole that gave it who will want and weepe | H |
| When his proud patrons favours are asleepe | H |
| While thus it buyes great grace and hunts poore fame | I |
| Runs betweene man and man 'tweene dame and dame | I |
| Solders crackt friendship makes love last a day | J |
| Or perhaps lesse whil'st gold beares all this sway | J |
| I that have none to send you send you verse | G |
| A present which if elder Writs reherse | G |
| The truth of times was once of more esteeme | I |
| Than this our guilt nor golden age can deeme | I |
| When gold was made no weapon to cut throats | G |
| Or put to flight Astrea when her ingots | G |
| Were yet unfound and better plac'd in earth | K |
| Than here to give pride fame and peasants birth | K |
| But let this drosse carry what price it will | L |
| With noble ignorants and let them still | L |
| Turne upon scorned verse their quarter face | G |
| With you I know my offring will finde grace | G |
| For what a sinne 'gainst your great fathers spirit | M |
| Were it to think that you should not inherit | M |
| His love unto the Muses when his skill | L |
| Almost you have or may have when you will | L |
| Wherein wise Nature you a dowrie gave | N |
| Worth an estate treble to that you have | O |
| Beauty I know is good and blood is more | E |
| Riches thought most But Madame think what store | E |
| The world hath seene which all these had in trust | P |
| And now lye lost in their forgotten dust | P |
| It is the Muse alone can raise to heaven | C |
| And at her strong armes end hold up and even | Q |
| The soules she loves Those other glorious notes | G |
| Inscrib'd in touch or marble or the cotes | G |
| Painted or carv'd upon our great mens tombs | G |
| Or in their windowes doe but prove the wombs | G |
| That bred them graves when they were borne they dy'd | R |
| That had no Muse to make their fame abide | R |
| How many equall with the Argive Queene | Q |
| Have beauty knowne yet none so famous seene | Q |
| Achilles was not first that valiant was | G |
| Or in an armies head that lockt in brasse | G |
| Gave killing strokes There were brave men before | E |
| Ajax or Idomen or all the store | E |
| That Homer brought to Troy yet none so live | S |
| Because they lack'd the sacred pen could give | T |
| Like life unto 'hem Who heav'd Hercules | G |
| Unto the starrs or the Tyndarides | G |
| Who placed Jasons Argo in the skie | U |
| Or set bright Ariadnes crowne so high | V |
| Who made a lampe of Berenices hayre | E |
| Or lifted Cassiopea in her chayre | E |
| But only Poets rapt with rage divine | Q |
| And such or my hopes faile shall make you shine | Q |
| You and that other starre that purest light | W |
| Of all Lucina's traine Lucy the bright | W |
| Than which a nobler heaven it selfe knowes not | X |
| Who though shee have a better Verser got | X |
| Or Poet in the Court account than I | V |
| And who doth me though I not him envy | Y |
| Yet for the timely favours shee hath done | Q |
| To my lesse sanguine Muse wherein she hath wonne | Q |
| My gratefull soule the subject of her powers | G |
| I have already us'd some happy houres | G |
| To her remembrance which when time shall bring | U |
| To curious light to notes I then shall sing | U |
| Will prove old Orpheus Act no rule to be | Y |
| For I shall move stocks stones no lesse than he | Y |
| Then all that have but done my Muse least grace | G |
| Shall thronging come and boast the happy place | G |
| They hold in my strange poems which as yet | Z |
| Had not their forme touch'd by an English wit | A2 |
| There like a rich and golden Pyramede | A2 |
| Borne up by statues shall I roare your head | A2 |
| Above your under carved ornaments | G |
| And show how to the life my soule presents | G |
| Your forme imprest there not with tickling rimes | G |
| Or Common places filch'd that take these times | G |
| But high and noble matter such as flies | G |
| From braines entranc'd and fill'd with extasies | G |
| Moods which the god like Sydney oft did prove | B2 |
| And your brave friend and mine so well did love | C2 |
| Who wheresoere he be | Y |
Ben Jonson
(1)
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About Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland
Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland is a poem by Ben Jonson. This page includes the poem text, poet information, related topics, comments, and similar poems.
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