Few have praised the master of masters, who but I <br />Have right, that followed example, and did not lie <br />Idly between clean sheets when was work to do. <br />And saw Paul's tower by Embankment, high over City in dew <br />Not resolved; sunlight of hidden sun; and with apprentices <br />Drank, and watched faces in Whitetrairs Lane, to my fancies. <br />Such work tops all but of Shakespeare, the earths child, the sun's, <br />He of no fairy gift, but of hard-first resolutions - <br />And set to build as Bartholomews lover that Saint - <br />Or Wren in a later day raising great stone from the burnt <br />History and heart's love of the City London. <br />(So much merchants', scholars love so dreadfully undone.) <br />But it not I, that have praised in music his town <br />Worthy of his praise - and to glory made great stone known. <br />If not I that of Embankment and Aldgate wrote - <br />The Age is mean indeed, and honours only by rote. <br />Chapman, and Marston, Pord, Shirley, marks to frighten; <br />To frighten those, whom their example should urge and heighten. <br />The age is honourless, and my walking in loneliness <br />My long thoughts in strict ways, my work - followings of him, <br />Are scorn to those whose lives are a wind breadth’s whim. <br />Follow nor good nor evil - see not, with eyes custom dim<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ben-johnson-2/
