Ben Jonson


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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.


I. — THE MUSICAL STRIFE. — A PASTORAL

DIALOGUE.   

She.  Come, with our voices let us war,
    And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star,
    And all the world turn ears.
He.   At such a call, what beast or fowl,
    Of reason empty is ?
What tree or stone doth want a soul,
    What man but must lose his ?
She.  Mix then your notes, that we may prove
    To stay the running floods ;
To make the mountain quarries move,
    And call the walking woods.
He.   What need of me? do you but sing.
    Sleep, and the grave will wake :
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
    But what those lips do make.
She.  They say, the angels mark each deed,
    And exercise below ;
And out of inward pleasure feed
    On what they viewing know.
He.   O sing not you then, lest the best
    Of angels should be driven
To fall again, at such a feast,
    Mistaking earth for heaven.
She.  Nay, rather both our souls be strain'd
    To meet their high desire ;
So they in state of grace retain'd,
    May wish us of their quire.



 
Source:
Jonson, Ben.  The Works of Ben Jonson.
Boston: Phillips, Sampson, and Co., 1853. 813.
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