Ben Jonson
AH, Ben!Say how, or when,Shall we thy guestsMeet at those lyric feastsMade at the Sun,The Dog, the Triple Tun?Where we such clusters hadAs made us nobly wild, not mad;And yet each verse of thineOut-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!Or come againOr send to usThy wit’s great over-plus;But teach us yetWisely to husband it,Lest we that talent spend:And having once brought to an endThat precious stock, the storeOf such a wit, the world should have no more.
GEORGE HERBERT 1593–1632