To Ben: Jonson's Ghost
I would write of Thee, Ben; not to approve
My witt or Learneing; but my Judgement, Love.
But when I think or this or that, to chuse;
Each part of Thee, is too big for my Muse.
Should I compare Thee to Rome's dust, that's dead?
Their witt, to Thine's as heavy as thy lead:
Should I prophane thee to our liveing Men?
Th'are light as strawes, and feathers to Thee, Ben.
Did wee want Ballads for these shallow tymes,
Or for our winter Nights, some sporting rhymes;
For such weake trifles, wee have witts great store;
Now thou art gone, there's not a Poet more.
Our Country's Glory! Wee may justly boast
Thus much; more would but raise thy angry Ghost.
We may with sadder blacks behange thy hearse;
All els, were Libells on ourselves, if Verse.
Rest then, in Peace, in our vast Mothers wombe,
Thou art a Monument, without a Tombe.
Is any Infidel? Let him but looke
And read, Hee may be saved by thy Booke.

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