An Ode for Ben Jonson

Ah, Ben!

Say how, or when

Shall we, thy guests,

Meet at those lyric feasts

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the Triple Tun?

Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad;

And yet each verse of thine

Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

My Ben!

Or come again,

Or send to us

Thy wit's great overplus;

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it,

Lest we that talent spend;

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock, the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.