Page:The Works of Ben Jonson - Gifford - Volume 9.djvu/139

You do not bring to judge your verses, one,
With joy of what is given him, over-gone:
For he'll cry, Good, brave, better, excellent!
Look pale, distil a shower (was never meant)
Out at his friendly eyes, leap, beat the groun',
As those that hir'd to weep at funerals swoon,
Cry, and do more to the true mourners: so
The scoffer the true praiser doth out-go.
Rich men are said with many cups to ply,
And rack with wine the man whom they would try,
If of their friendship he be worthy or no:
When you write verses, with your judge do so:
Look through him, and be sure you take not mocks
For praises, where the mind conceals a fox.
If to Quintilius you recited aught,
He'd say, Mend this, good friend, and this; 'tis naught.
If you denied you had no better strain,
And twice or thrice had 'ssay'd it, still in vain:
He'd bid blot all, and to the anvil bring
Those ill-torn'd verses to new hammering.
Then if your fault you rather had defend
Than change; no word or work more would he spend
In vain, but you and yours you should love still
Alone, without a rival, by his will.
A wise and honest man will cry out shame
On artless verse; the hard ones he will blame,
Blot out the careless with his turned pen;
Cut off superfluous ornaments, and when
They're dark, bid clear this: all that's doubtful wrote
Reprove, and what is to be changed note;
Become an Aristarchus. And not say
Why should I grieve my friend this trifling way?