To Ben Jonson Upon Occasion Of His Ode Of Defiance Annexed

'Tis true, dear Ben, thy just chastising hand
    Hath fix'd upon the sotted age a brand
    To their swoll'n pride and empty scribbling due;
    It can nor judge, nor write, and yet 'tis true
    Thy comic muse, from the exalted line
    Touch'd by thy Alchemist, doth since decline
    From that her zenith, and foretells a red
    And blushing evening, when she goes to bed;
    Yet such as shall outshine the glimmering light
  With which all stars shall gild the following night.
  Nor think it much, since all thy eaglets may
  Endure the sunny trial, if we say
  This hath the stronger wing, or that doth shine
  Trick'd up in fairer plumes, since all are thine.
  Who hath his flock of cackling geese compar'd
  With thy tun'd choir of swans? or else who dar'd
  To call thy births deform'd? But if thou bind
  By city-custom,  or by gavelkind,
  In equal shares thy love on all thy race,
  We may distinguish of their sex, and place;
  Though one hand form them, and though one brain strike
  Souls into all, they are not all alike.
  Why should the follies then of this dull age
  Draw from thy pen such an immodest rage
  As seems to blast thy else-immorta l bays,
  When thine own tongue proclaims thy itch of praise?
  Such thirst will argue drouth. No, let be hurl'd
  Upon thy works by the detracting world
  What malice can suggest; let the rout say,
  The running sands, that, ere thou make a play,
  Count the slow minutes, might a Goodwin frame
  To swallow, when th' hast done, thy shipwreck'd name;
  Let them the dear expense of oil upbraid,
  Suck'd by thy watchful lamp, that hath betray'd
  To theft the blood of martyr'd authors, spilt
  Into thy ink, whilst thou growest pale with guilt.
  Repine not at the taper's thrifty waste,
  That sleeks thy terser poems; nor is haste
  Praise, but excuse; and if thou overcome
  A knotty writer, bring the booty home;
  Nor think it theft if the rich spoils so torn
  From conquer'd authors be as trophies worn.
  Let others glut on the extorted praise
  Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after-days;
  Thy labour'd works shall live when time devours
  Th' abortive offspring of their hasty hours.
  Thou are not of their rank, the quarrel lies
  Within thine own verge; then let this suffice,
  The wiser world doth greater thee confess
  Than all men else, than thyself only less.