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Poem by Ben Jonson


To Francis Beaumont


How I do love thee, Beaumont, and thy muse,
That unto me dost such religion use!
How I do fear myself, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happy, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou takest!
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envy thee. 



Ben Jonson


Ben Jonson's other poems:
  1. Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke
  2. A Hymn to God the Father
  3. To Censorious Courtling
  4. His Supposed Mistress
  5. Living By


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