A Sonnet to the Noble Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth

I that have been a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumb,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poet.
Nor is my Muse or I ashamed to owe it
To those true numerous graces, whereof some
But charm the senses, others overcome
Both brains and hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your verse all Cupid’s armoury,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother’s sweets you so apply,
Her joys, her smiles, as readers take
For Venus’ ceston every line you make.

This tribute by the English poet and playwright Ben Jonson (1572-1637) to fellow poet Lady Mary Wroth (1587-1651), proclaims its intentions rather loudly and explicitly: A Sonnet to the Noble Lady, the Lady Mary Wroth. After the title, though, what struck me particularly was the choice of verb, “exscribe”, in line three. It means “transcribe” and suggests Jonson’s praise has a serious foundation of commitment and thought.

By the time he printed the sonnet (1640-41) Jonson had, of course, read the published edition (1621) of the younger poet’s magnum opus, her ambitious prose romance, The Countess of Montgomery’s Urania. But his reference to transcription may suggest he had seen the earlier manuscript, a version that already included sonnets and songs for utterance by Wroth’s major characters, Pamphilia (“all-lover”) and Amphilanthus (“lover of two”) Perhaps paying special attention to the sonnets spoken by Wroth’s likely persona Pamphilia, Jonson had made sure to acquire his own copy. He may also have compared the earlier and later sonnets and noted down revisions.

Jonson’s sonnet begins with the assertion of his credentials: “I that have been a lover, and could show it …” He moves on quickly to assure Mary Wroth he isn’t writing as a lover or love poet here (“not in these … rithmes”) and perhaps simultaneously admitting that he isn’t himself a writer of love sonnets: “these rithmes” could refer to the sonnet form in general. Nevertheless, Wroth’s verse has made him a “better lover, and much better poet”. The sonnets have taught him something about women and eroticism, but, more importantly, they have improved his poetic technique. It’s a neat, tactful conclusion to a mildly flirtatious first quatrain.

Those “A” rhymes in his Petrarchan plan (“show it”/“poet”/“owe it”/“know it”) are also nicely executed, and have a tone neither skittish nor over-solemn. They intensify as they progress from “show it” to “know it”, and the sonnet’s opening rationale is further developed. Neither the poet nor his “Muse” are ashamed to be indebted to the “true numerous graces” by which a poet does more than “charm the senses” but can “overcome / Both brains and hearts”. The rhyme-ending “know it” asserts the lesson Jonson claims to have learned especially from Wroth: that a good sonnet demands intellectual sinew besides sensory and emotional appeal.

Jonson takes advantage of the “turn” in line nine to change key and heighten the rhetorical pitch, with familiar classical allusions as reinforcement. The addition of “flames” to Cupid’s armoury isn’t a Jonson original: “flames” were referenced by other poets, including Wroth herself, and represent the purification of love into gold, a finer material than flesh, and, of course, the desired product of the alchemist’s crucible. Jonson’s compliments catch fire, though, and come dangerously close to hyperbole. Wroth’s verse can “overthrow” Cupid, and even blind him. Moreover, Venus’s softer power (“his mother’s sweets”) is included in her poetic strategy. Jonson closes with a particularly large-gestured generalisation: it’s Wroth’s “readers” – himself included, but not only himself – who are empowered by Venus’s “ceston”, the girdle which gave a wearer the ability to elicit love. And this is an effect Mary Wroth produces in “every line”. Jonson’s heart, if not his brain, seems to have been “overcome”.

When she published her 1621 version of Urania, Wroth added a further, independent song-and-sonnet sequence, Pamphilia and Amphilanthus.

This no doubt was further fuel to the outbreak of disapproval that greeted the book. Among a number of charges against it were the allusions to certain non-fictional court scandals, including the relationship between the writer and her lover, William Herbert. Perhaps more shocking still was the fact that a woman had written a secular erotic sonnet sequence, trampling both on male poetic territory and the religious proprieties expected of female poets.

Jonson’s long-term support for Wroth (he also dedicated his 1610 play The Alchemist to her) may well have been influenced by self-interest. William Herbert had been his patron. He naturally wished to to keep on the right side of the nobility, the Sidneys and Pembrokes who were Wroth’s close family members. But, from the overall tone and context of the sonnet, it seems most likely that, while he indulged in flights of flattery, genuine admiration and affection were also present. As an equally intelligent and complex reader, Mary Wroth, I expect, would have recognised the nuances, and found herself not displeased by Jonson’s fundamentally sympathetic display.