First Lines of Ben Jonson
As the fund of our pleasure, let each pay his shot,Brave infant of Saguntum, clearCamden ! most reverend head, to whom I oweCome, leave the loathe'd stage,Drink to me only with thine eyes,Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;Follow a shadow, it still flies you,Hear me, O God!Here lies, to each her parents ruth,I now think, Love is rather deaf than blind,Men, if you love us, play no moreNow that the hearth is crowned with smiling fire,On Something, That Walks Somewhere.See the chariot at hand here of Love,The ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:Though beauty be the mark of praise,To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name,To-night, grave sir, both my poor house and IUnderneath this sable herseWeep with me, all you that readWhilst thy weighed judgments, Egerton, I hear,Would'st thou hear what man can say