TO BEN JONSON

The sun (which doth the greatest comfort bring)
To absent friends, because the self-same thing
They know they see, however absent) is
Here our best haymaker (forgive me this;
It is our country’s style): in this warm shine
I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid Wine.

Methinks the little wit I had is lost
Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest
Held up at tennis, which men do the best
With the best gamesters. What things have we seen
Done at the Mermaid! Heard words that have been
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,
As if that every one (from whence they came)
Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolved to live a fool the rest
Of his dull life;— then when there hath been thrown.
Wit able enough to justify the town
For three days past; wit that might warrant be
Till that were cancelled; and, when we were gone,
We left an air behind us; which alone
Was able to make the two next companies
(right witty; though but downright fools) more wise

Only strong destiny, which all controls,
I hope hath left a better fate in store
For me, th friend, than to live ever poor,
Banished unto this home. Fate once again,
Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain
The way of knowledge for me, and then I
(Who have no good but in thy company),
Protest it will my greatest comfort be,
To acknowledge all I have, to flow from thee!
Ben, when these Scenes are perfect, we’ll taste wine!
I’ll drink thy Muse’s health! Thou shalt quaff mine!

Francis Beaumont