An Ode to 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

Outdid the meat, outdid 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.