T  H  E     F  O  R  E  S  T .           IV. — TO THE WORLD.                   A Farewell for a Gentlewoman, virtuous and noble. False world, good-night ! since thou hast brought      That hour upon any morn of age, Henceforth I quit thee from my thought,     My part is ended on thy stage. Do not once hope that thou canst tempt    A spirit so resolv'd to tread Upon thy throat, and live exempt    From all the nets that thou canst spread. I know thy forms are studied arts,    Thy subtle ways be narrow straits ;   10 Thy courtesy but sudden starts,    And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits. I know too, though thou strut and paint,    Yet art thou both shrunk up, and old, That only fools make thee a saint,    And all thy good is to be sold. I know thou whole are but a shop    Of toys and trifles, traps and snares, To take the weak, or make them stop :    Yet art thou falser than thy wares.   20 And, knowing this, should I yet stay,    Like such as blow away their lives, And never will redeem a day,    Enamour'd of their golden gyves ? Or having 'scaped shall I return,    And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence so lately, I did burn,    With all my powers, myself to loose ? What bird, or beast is known so dull,    That fled his cage, or broke his chain,   30 And, tasting air and freedom, wull    Render his head in there again ? If these who have but sense, can shun    The engines, that have them annoy'd ; Little for me had reason done,    If I could not thy gins avoid. Yes, threaten, do.   Alas, I fear     As little, as I hope from thee :  I know thou canst nor shew, nor bear     More hatred, than thou hast to me.    40 My tender, first, and simple years     Thou didst abuse, and then betray ;  Since stirr'dst up jealousies and fears,     When all the causes were away.  Then in a soil hast planted me,     Where breathe the basest of thy fools,  Where envious arts professed be,     And pride and ignorance the schools : Where nothing is examin'd, weigh'd,     But as 'tis rumour'd, so believed ;    50 Where every freedom is betray'd,     And every goodness tax'd or grieved.  But what we're born for, we must bear :    Our frail condition it is such, That what to all may happen here,     If't chance to me, I must not grutch.  Else I my state should much mistake,    To harbor a divided thought  From all my kind ;  that for my sake,    There should a miracle be wrought.    60 No, I do know that I was born     To age, misfortune, sickness, grief : But I will bear these with that scorn,    As shall not need thy false relief.  Nor for my peace will I go far,     As wanderers do, that still do roam ; But make my strengths, such as they are,     Here in my bosom, and at home.
Source: Jonson, Ben.  The Works of Ben Jonson. Boston: Phillips, Sampson, and Co., 1853. 802-803.

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