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Ben Jonson - XIV: Ode: To Sir William Sydney, On His Birth-day
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Now that the harth is crown`d with smiling fire,
  And some do drink, and some do dance,
    Some ring,
    Some sing,
  And all do strive t`advance
The gladnesse higher:
    Wherefore should I
    Stand silent by.
       Who not the least,
       Both love the cause, and authors of the feast.
Give me my cup, but from the Thespian Well,
  That I may tell to Sydney, what
         This day
         Doth say,
  And he may think on that
Which I do tell:
    When all the noyse
    Of these forc`d joyes,
       Are fled and gone,
       And he, with his best Genius left alone.
This day says, then, the number of glad yeares
  Are justly summ`d, that make you man;
         Your vow
         Must now
  Strive all right ways it can,
T`out-strip your peeres:
    Since he doth lack
    Of going back
       Little, whose will
       Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.
Nor can a little of the common store,
  Of nobles vertue, shew in you;
         Your blood
         So good
  And great, must seek for new,
And study more:
    Nor weary, rest
    On what`s deceast.
       For they, that swell
       With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.
`Twill be exacted of your name, whose sonne,
  Whose nephew, whose grand-child you are;
         And men
         Will, then,
  Say you have follow`d farre,
When well begun:
    Which must be now,
    They teach you, how.
       And he that stayes
       To liue untill to morrow `hath lost two dayes.
So may you live in honor, as in name,
  If with this truth you be inspir`d;
         So may
         This day
  Be more, and long desir`d:
And with the flame
    Of love bee bright,
    As with the light
       Of bone-fires. Then
       The Birth-day shines, when logs not burne, but men.
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