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

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.