The Transmigration of Timothy Archer

An Ode for him

Ah Ben!

Say how, or when Shall we thy Guests

Meet at those Lyrick Feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the triple Tunne?

Where we such clusters had,

As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each Verse of thine

Out-did the meate, out-did the frolick wine.

My Ben

Or come agen: Or send to us,

Thy wits great over-plus; 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.

-ROBERT HERRICK, 1848