"When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
from Rudyard Kipling's The Conundrum of the Workshops
Poetry: Poems of Acclaim
Ben Jonson (1573-1637)
- Drink to me, only, with thine eyes,
- And I will pledge with mine;
- Or leave a kiss but in the cup
- And I'll not look for wine.
- The thirst, that from the soul doth rise
- Doth ask a drink divine:
- But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
- I would not change for thine.
- I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,
- Not so much honouring thee,
- As giving it a hope, that there
- It could not withered be.
- But thou thereon did'st only breath,
- And sent'st it back to me:
- Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
- Not of itself, but thee.