If you have a favourite poet then among their works you will have a favourite poem. It is where the heart lies. One of the poets I most cherish is Ben Jonson (1572-1637), and the poem of his to which I always return is ‘Inviting a Friend to Supper’. The poem comes from Jonson’s 1616 collection Epigrams. The poems in Epigrams mostly address people in Jonson’s social circle, from aristocratic patrons (the volume is dedicated to the Earl of Pembroke), to men and women of the period who were notable or cultured, some named, some anonymous. Some of the poems are aimed at fools, knaves and spies, all anonymous, but these merely offset the virtues of those whose company or character Jonson values. Epigrams conjures up a community of the civilised, people who live the better life in challenging times.
Epigrams is also a tribute to the Roman poet, Martial, who produced his own Epigrams, in several volumes, and whose style and thematic preoccupations Jonson admired and sought to imitate. ‘Inviting a Friend to Supper’ is addressed to an unnamed member of Jonson’s circle – possibly to a specific person, or else to an idealised friend – but also borrows from some of Martial’s poems, in particular Epigram number 52 in volume 11 of his series, which begins, “Cenabis belle, Juli Cerialis, apud me; condicio est melior si tibi nulla, veni” (‘You will dine nicely, Julius Cerialis, at my house; if you have no better engagement, come’). The poems in Epigrams look back to the classical but find the language, and have the keen observer’s eye, to make the classical contemporary. Their simplicity and conciseness, learned from Martial and his peers, find best expression in ‘Inviting a Friend to Supper’.
The poem reads like a note sent to a dinner guest, and maybe that is what it originally was. Jonson asks that the ‘grave sir’ grace him and his ‘poor house’ with their company, ‘Not that we think us worthy such a guest, But that your worth will dignify our feast’. It is courteously expressed, politely formal to the point of apologising a little too much, but such are the requirements of manners. The supper Jonson has in mind is a feast, since he goes through an amazing list of culinary options: olives, capers, mutton, a short-legged hen with eggs, lemons, wine sauce, larks, partridge, pheasant, woodcock, knat (probably snipe), rail (a corncrake) or ruff, with pastries, cheese, fruit and the finest wines that the nearby Mermaid tavern could offer, to follow. It would be rather too much of a meal if all of these were served, but Jonson is describing the plenteousness of his table as something bounteous rather than a literal menu.
While they eat, Jonson will have someone read classical texts to them – Virgil, Tacitus, Livy – upon which they may comment. It reinforces the Roman tone, while allowing for some self-mockery, as Jonson promises that none of his work will be read. There is reference to the dangers of the time when Jonson promises his guest that “we will have no Pooley, or Parrot by”. Robert Pooley and Parrot were both government informers, so it was surely risky to name them in a published poem, even if the poet does not specifically suggest anything about either man. Jonson was twice imprisoned for writing plays that offended the authorities (a third imprisonment was for killing a man in a duel). Like many in his profession of poet-playwright, Jonson hovered between peril and patronage. A Roman Catholic, he had been at another supper with several of the Gunpowder Plot conspirators shortly before the plot was uncovered; yet he was favoured by King James I and is sometimes described as England’s first poet laureate, after he was awarded a royal pension in recognition of his work. Jonson and his guest are not ‘guilty men’ and are ‘innocently met’. Conviviality proves their guiltlessness. The supper and its informal formalities are protection against an uncertain and dangerous world lying just beyond the walls of the poet’s house.
‘Inviting a Friend to Supper’ feels like the key to Epigrams, as it brings together the favoured (Jonson’s guest) and the knaves who darken the times. It is a wicked world, and our homes are our only security. Inviting someone to one’s ‘poor house’ is therefore a gesture of deep trust. It is the most generous, the most civilised thing any one of us can do: to invite a friend into our home for supper, to make them one of us. We spend hours in preparation, we present the finest our table can offer, we make sure that everything is looking at its best. Tomorrow, plots may be uncovered, our friends may be lost to us and our enemies triumphant. But not this evening. Nothing now shall make us sad next morning or affright the liberty that we’ll enjoy tonight.
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.
This is the ninth in an occasional series of posts on favourite poets of mine
