He that hath Youth, and Friends, and so much Wit
As would aske five good heads to husband it;
He that hath wrote so well, that no man dare
Refuse it for the best, let him beware:
Beaumont is dead, by which one Act appeares
Wit's a disease consumes men in few yeares.

Dawson the Butler's dead; although I thinke
Poets were nere infus'd with single drinke,
I'le spende a farthinge, Muse: a watery Verse
Will serve the turne to cast upon his Herse.
If any cannot weepe amongst us heere,
Take off his pott, and so squeeze out a teare.
Weepe, O his cheeses! Weepe till you be good,
Ye that are dry, or in the sunne have stood:
In mossy coats and rusty liveries mourne,
Untill, like him, to Ashes ye shall turne.
Weepe, O ye barrells! Lett your drippings fall
In trickling streames: make waste more prodigall
Than when our drinke is bad, that John may floate
To Stix in beere, and lift up Charons boate
With wholesome waves; and as our counduits runne
With Clarret at the Coronation,
Soe let our channells flow with single tiffe,
For John, I trust, is crown'd. Take off your whiffe,
Ye men of rosemary! Now drinke off all,
Remembring 'tis the butler's funerall.
Had he bin master of good double beere,
My life for his, John Dawson had bin heere!