To John Donne

Donne, the delight of Phoebus and each Muse
   Who, to thy one, all other brains refuse;
   Whose every work of thy most early wit
   Came forth example, and remains so yet;
   Longer a-knowing than most wits do live;
   And which no affection praise enough can give!
   To it, thy language, letters, arts, best life,
   Which might with half mankind maintain a strife.
   All which I meant to praise, and yet I would;
  But leave, because I cannot as I should!