Ben Jonson (1572–1637), William Shakespeare’s younger contemporary, served as a bricklayer’s apprentice and a soldier in an English regiment in Flanders before embarking on a career in the theater. Although as an actor he filled such notable roles as Hieronimo in Thomas Kyd’s “The Spanish Tragedy,” he eventually established himself as a dramatist, the author of such plays as “Every Man in His Humour” and “Volpone.” His literary gift was for comedy, not tragedy. “Inviting a Friend for Supper,” in iambic-pentameter couplets, envisions an evening made pleasant by good food, good reading, and conversation that will return to haunt no one in the morning.  

Inviting a Friend to Supper 
by Ben Jonson 

Tonight, grave sir, both my poor house, and I 
Do equally desire your company; 
Not that we think us worthy such a guest, 
But that your worth will dignify our feast 
With those that come, whose grace may make that seem 
Something, which else could hope for no esteem. 
It is the fair acceptance, sir, creates 
The entertainment perfect, not the cates. 
Yet shall you have, to rectify your palate, 
An olive, capers, or some better salad 
Ushering the mutton; with a short-legged hen, 
If we can get her, full of eggs, and then 
Lemons, and wine for sauce; to these a cony 
Is not to be despaired of, for our money; 
And, though fowl now be scarce, yet there are clerks, 
The sky not falling, think we may have larks. 
I’ll tell you of more, and lie, so you will come: 
Of partridge, pheasant, woodcock, of which some 
May yet be there, and godwit, if we can; 
Knat, rail, and ruff too. Howsoe’er, my man 
Shall read a piece of Virgil, Tacitus, 
Livy, or of some better book to us, 
Of which we’ll speak our minds, amidst our meat; 
And I’ll profess no verses to repeat. 
To this, if ought appear which I not know of, 
That will the pastry, not my paper, show of. 
Digestive cheese and fruit there sure will be; 
But that which most doth take my Muse and me, 
Is a pure cup of rich Canary wine, 
Which is the Mermaid’s now, but shall be mine; 
Of which had Horace, or Anacreon tasted, 
Their lives, as so their lines, till now had lasted. 
Tobacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring, 
Are all but Luther’s beer to this I sing. 
Of this we will sup free, but moderately, 
And we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by, 
Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; 
But, at our parting we will be as when 
We innocently met. No simple word 
That shall be uttered at our mirthful board, 
Shall make us sad next morning or affright 
The liberty that we’ll enjoy tonight. 

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With “Poem of the Day,” The New York Sun offers a daily portion of verse selected by the Sun’s poetry editor, Joseph Bottum of Dakota State University, with the help of the North Carolina poet Sally Thomas, The Sun’s associate poetry editor. Tied to the day, or the season, or just individual taste, the poems will be typically drawn from the lesser-known portion of the history of English verse. In the coming months we will be reaching out to contemporary poets for examples of current, primarily formalist work, to show that poetry can still serve as a delight to the ear, an instruction to the mind, and a tonic for the soul.