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Poem by Ben Jonson


Why I Write Not Of Love


SOME act of LOVE'S bound to rehearse,
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 mother, in their net :
I wear not these my wings in vain.
With which he fled me ;  and again,
Into my rhymes could ne'er be got
By any art :  then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow cold.



Ben Jonson


Ben Jonson's other poems:
  1. On A Robbery
  2. To Censorious Courtling
  3. So Breaks The Sun
  4. To Francis Beaumont
  5. Begging Another


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