Ben Jonson (1572–1637)

THERE, like a rich and golden pyramid,

Borne up by statues, shall I rear your head

Above your under-carvèd ornaments,

And show how to the life my soul presents

Your form imprest there, not with tickling rhymes

Or common-places filched, that take these times,

But high and noble matter, such as flies

From brains entranced, and filled with ecstasies,

Moods which the god-like Sidney oft did prove,

And your brave friend and mine so well did love.