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Epigram to Sir Henry Neville
by
Ben Jonson (c.1610)

Who now calls on thee, NEVIL, is a Muse,
That serves nor fame, nor titles;but doth chuse
Where vertue makes them both, and that’s in thee:
Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.
Thou art not one, seek’st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or fain’st a scope
Of seruice to the publique, when the end
Is priuate gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv’st the matter to possesse,
And elements of honor, the[a]n the dresse;
To make thy lent life, good against the Fates:
And first to know thine owne state, then the States.
To be the same in roote, thou art in height;
And that thy soule should give thy flesh her weight.
Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,
Now I haue sung thee thus, shall iudge of thee.
Thy deedes, vnto thy name, will prove new wombes,
Whil’st others toyle for titles to their tombes.