Ben Jonson

Reverend shade,
Since last I made
Survey of thee,
Mee thinks I find
A fresher mind
To Poesie.

Most honoured Ben
Appeare agen,
That so I may,
Embrace thy Ghost,
Although it cost
My lifes decay.

Sacred Spirit
Whose boundlesse merit
I Adore,
Upon thy Herse
I'le drop a Verse
And no more.

Thy Lawrell wreath
Doth lie beneath
Great Phoebus feet,
Hee asks of thee
Which way to be
A God more great.

Thou Ben shalt be
A Saint to me
Each Verse I make,
I'le censure it
By thy great Wit,
If it partake

The least of thine,
I will Divine
It shall subsist,
Alas if not
The same I'le blot,
'Twil not be mist.