Ben Jonson

11 June 1572 – 6 August 1637 / London / England

I: Why I Write Not To Love

Some act of
bound to reherse,
I thought to bind him, in my verse:
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)
Can Poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars, and my
, in their net:
I weare not these my wings in vaine.
With which he fled me: and againe,
Into my rimes could ne're be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
is fled, and I grow old.
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