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

Rh 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?