Ode upon the Censure of his New Inn
Come,
leave
the
loathed
stage,
And
the
more
loathsome
age;
Where
pride
and
impudence,
in
faction
knit,
Usurp
the
chair
of
wit!
Indicting
and
arraigning
every
day
Something
they
call
a
play.
Let
their
fastidious,
vain
Commission
of
the
brain
Run
on
and
rage,
sweat,
censure,
and
condemn;
They
were
not
made
for
thee,
less
thou
for
them.
Say
that
thou
pour'st
them
wheat,
And
they
will
acorns
eat;
'Twere
simple
fury
still
thyself
to
waste
On
such
as
have
no
taste!
To
offer
them
a
surfeit
of
pure
bread
Whose
appetites
are
dead!
No,
give
them
grains
their
fill,
Husks,
draff
to
drink
and
swill:
If
they
love
lees,
and
leave
the
lusty
wine,
Envy
them
not,
their
palate's
with
the
swine.
No
doubt
some
mouldy
tale,
Like
Pericles,
and
stale
As
the
shrieve's
crusts,
and
nasty
as
his
fish—
Scraps
out
of
every
dish
Thrown
forth,
and
rak'd
into
the
common
tub,
May
keep
up
the
Play-club:
There,
sweepings
do
as
well
As
the
best-order'd
meal;
For
who
the
relish
of
these
guests
will
fit,
Needs
set
them
but
the
alms-basket
of
wit.
And
much
good
do't
you
then:
Brave
plush-and-velvet-men
Can
feed
on
orts;
and,
safe
in
your
stage-clothes,
Dare
quit,
upon
your
oaths,
The
stagers,
and
the
stage-wrights
too
(your
peers)
Of
larding
your
large
ears
With
their
foul
comic
socks,
Wrought
upon
twenty
blocks;
Which
if
they
are
torn,
and
turn'd,
and
patch'd
enough,
The
gamesters
share
your
gilt,
and
you
their
stuff.
Leave
things
so
prostitute,
And
take
the
Alcaic
lute;
Or
thine
own
Horace,
or
Anacreon's
lyre;
Warm
thee
by
Pindar's
fire:
And
though
thy
nerves
be
shrunk,
and
blood
be
cold,
Ere
years
have
made
thee
old,
Strike
that
disdainful
heat
Throughout,
to
their
defeat,
As
curious
fools,
and
envious
of
thy
strain,
May
blushing
swear,
no
palsy's
in
thy
brain.
But
when
they
hear
thee
sing
The
glories
of
thy
king,
His
zeal
to
God,
and
his
just
awe
o'er
men:
They
may,
blood-shaken
then,
Feel
such
a
flesh-quake
to
possess
their
powers,
As
they
shall
cry:
"Like
ours
In
sound
of
peace
or
wars,
No
harp
e'er
hit
the
stars,
In
tuning
forth
the
acts
of
his
sweet
reign,
And
raising
Charles
his
chariot
'bove
his
Wain."
Ben Jonson
Ben Jonson (born June 11?, 1572, London, England—died August 6, 1637, London) English Stuart dramatist, lyric poet, and literary critic. He is generally regarded as the second most important English dramatist, after William Shakespeare, during the reign of James I. Among his major plays are the comedies Every Man in His Humour (1598), Volpone (1605), Epicoene; or, The Silent Woman (1609), The Alchemist (1610), and Bartholomew Fair (1614). Ben Jonson died in Westminster on August 8, 1637. A tremendous crowd of mourners attended his burial at Westminster Abbey. He is regarded as one of the major dramatists and poets of the seventeenth century.