Ben. Johnson's poems, elegies, paradoxes, and sonnets

An Acknowledgment.

MY best of friends! what needs a chain to tie One by your merit bound a Votarie? Think you I have some plot upon my peace, I would this bondage change for a release? Since 'twas my fate your prisoner to be, Heav'n knows I nothing fear but libertie.

Yet you do well that study to prevent, After so rich a stock of favour spent On one so worthless, lest my memory Should let so dear an obligation dy

Without Record. This made my precious Friend Her Token, as an Antidote to send Against forgetful poysons. That as they Who Vespers late, and early Mattins say Upon their Beads, so on this linked skore In golden numbers I might reckon ore Your vertues and my debt, which does surmount The trivial laws of Popular account: For that within this emblematick knot Your beauteous mind, and my own fate is wrote.

The sparkling constellation which combines The Lock, is your dear self, whose worth out shines Most of your sex: so solid and so clear You like a perfect Diamond appear; Casting from your example fuller light Then those dimme sparks which glaze the brow of night, And gladding all your friends, as doth the ray Of that East-starre which wakes the cheerful day.

But the black Map of death and discontent Behind that Adamantine firmament, That luckless figure which like Calvary Stands strew'd and coppy'd out in skuls, is I:

Whose life your absence clouds, and makes my time Move blindfold in the dark ecliptick line.

Then wonder not if my removed Sun So low within the Western Tropick run; My eyes no day in this Horizon see, Since where You are not all is night to me.

Lastly, the anchor which enfastned lies Upon a pair of deaths, sadly applies That Monument of Rest which harbour must Our Ship-wrackt fortunes in a road of dust.

So then how late soere my joyless life Be tired out in this affections strife: Though my tempestuous fancie like the skie Travail with stormes, and through my watry eie Sorrows high-going waves spring many a leak; Though sighs blow loud til my hearts cordagebrea•• Though Bath, and all my wishes prove untrue, Yet Death shall fix and anchor Me with You. 'Tis some poor comfort that this mortal scope Will Period, though never Crown my Hope.