To the Memory of Ben Jonson

The Muse’s fairest light in no dark time, The wonder of a learnèd age; the line Which none can pass! the most proportioned wit,— To nature, the best judge of what was fit; The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen; The voice most echoed by consenting men; The soul which answered best to all well said By others, and which most requital made; Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome, Returning all her music with his own; In whom, with nature, study claimed a part, And yet who to himself owed all his art: Here lies Ben Jonson! every age will look With sorrow here, with wonder on his book.