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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:
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