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.
