[Thomas Carew, To Ben Johnson uppon occasion of his Ode to Himself. Text from the autograph in the Domestic State Papers, Charles I, 155/79. The poem was printed in Carew's Poems (1640), pp. 108-10.]
Carew (?1595-1640) was at Merton College, Oxford, then served Sir Dudley Carleton while the latter was ambassador in Venice and in the Netherlands, and then Sir Edward Herbert while he was ambassador in Paris. After returning to England in 1624 Carew held various posts at court. He wrote verse and a masque, Coelum Britannicum (1634). He refers to actors rehearsing 'great Johnsons verse' in a commendatory poem to Davenant's play The Just Italian (1630). His other recorded comment on Jonson is a sarcastic aside to James Howell at a dinner where Jonson was present and praised himself: Howell says in a letter, published in 1647. that Carew 'buz'd me in the ear, that although Ben had barrel'd up a great deal of knowledg, yet it seems he had not read the Ethiques, which among other precepts of morality forbid self-commendation, declaring it to be an ill favoured solecism in good manners . . . " ((second edition, 1650, ii, 25; see Life Record 90). Falkland's elegy on Jonson (Literary Record 32) anticipates an elegy on Jonson from Carew, but none is known.
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'Tis true (deere Ben:) thy just chastizing hand
Hath fix'd uppon the sotted age, a brand
To theyr swolne Pride, & empty scribling due,
It can nor judge, nor write; & yet 'tis true
Thy comique muse from the exalted line
Toucht by thy Alchymist, doth since decline
From that her Zenith, & foretells a redd
And blushing Evening, when she goes to bedd.
Yet such, as shall outshine the glimmering light
With which all starrs shall guide the following night.
Nor thinke it much, since all thy Eagletts maye
Indure the sunny tryall, if we saye
This hath the stronger wing, & that doth shine
Trickt vpp in fayrer plumes, since All are thine.
Whoe hath his flock of caqueling Geese compard
To thy tun'd quire of Swans? or whoe bath dar'd
To call thy byrths deformd? but if thou binde
By Cittie customs, or by Gavellkinde
In equall shares, thy love to all thy race,
Wee maye distinguish of theyr sexe & place.
Though one hand shape them, & though one brayne strike
Soules into all, theye are not all alike.
Why should the follies then, of this dull Age
Drawe from thy penn such an immodest rage,
As seemes to blast thy else immortall bayes,
When thyne owne tongue proclaymes thy itch of prayse?
Such thirst will argue drowth: no, lett be hurld
Uppon thy workes, by the detracting world
What malice can suggest, lett the rowte saye
The running sandes, that ere thou make a playe
Count the slowe minuts, might a Godwin frame,
To swallowe when th'hast done thy shippwrackt name,
Lett them the deere expence of oyle upbrayde,
Suckt by thy watchfull lampe, which hath betrayde
To theft the blond of mayrtird Authors, spilt
Into thy inke, whilst thou growst pale with guilt.
Repine not at thy Tapers thriftie waste,
That sleekes thy tearser Poems; nor is haste
Prayse, but excuse: & if thou owercome
A knottie writer, bring the bootie home.
Nor thinke it theft, if the rich spoyles so torne
From conquerd Authors, be as Trophies worne.
Lett others glutt on the extorted prayse
Of vulgar breath, trust thou to after dayes.
Thy labour'd workes shall live, when Time devoures
Th' abortive ofspring of theyr hasty howers.
Thou art not of theyr ranke, the quarrell lyes
Within thyne owne virge; then lett this suffize
The wiser world doth Greater Thee confess
Then all men else, then Thyself only Less.