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!