To John Donne

Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse

Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;

Whose every work of thy most early wit

Came forth example, and remains so yet;

Longer a-knowing than most wits do live;

And which no affection praise enough can give!

To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,

Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.

All which I meant to praise, and yet I would;

But leave, because I cannot as I should!