University of Virginia Library

The Anatomie of Alchymie.

Epistle. 7.

Thou dost desire, (and hast deseru'd farre more,)
To gather my opinion in my Rimes,
In what regard I hould that hidden lore,
Ycleped Alchymie these latter times:
To satisfie this expectation,
Sweet frend conceiue much matter, in few lines,
This fruite of foolish innouation
Is first condemn'd by deepest-red diuines,
Not as an art, but as the seale of shift,
The persecution of natures power,
Diuine in show, in proofe, a subtill drift,
To cousen slight-beleeuers euerie hower:
For if with iealous eies we iustly prie
Into the scope, and issue of the same
Nature, (the mistres of Philosophie)
Is lost herein, and wanteth power, and name:
The artists, and the practizers hereof
Resemble Cacus creeping from his den,
The common subiects of each publique scof,
The refuse race, of labour-tyred men.
Their purpose is to drag out by the eares
A quint-essence to fixe and fashion gold.
To cloth decrepit age with youthly yeares,
To quicken plants by nature fruitles old,
But al these promis'd mountaines proue a mouse,
These silly idiots plie the fire so fast;
That sodainly they blow vp man and house,
And both their wealths, & wits, & fortunes wast:
Yet these quark-saluers for a colour sake
Pretend some physicall experiments,
And mightie cures with boldnes vndertake,
But all their science is but complements:
They by their words enritch beleeuing sots,
Whereas in deede they emptie all their chists,
And where they promise gold, by glutting pots,
They beg for groats, and part with empty fists:
And as along the shores of Cicely,
The Syrens charme by their enchanting noates
The passengers to seeke their ieopardie,
So these by bootles hopes, do cut mens throates:
So that this studie, (as some writers deeme)
Is but a pleasing madnes at the best,
Drawn on by dreames, & thoughts of things which seem,
Till richly left, be poorely dispossest:
The fauorites of this too fond conceite,
At last through losse of substance, and of time,
Robb'd, and bereft of rent, and olde receite,
Are like a crased clocke, that cannot chime:
Olde, clothles, meatles, smelling brimstone still,
Besmeer'd with cole-dust, from their furnace brought,
Plagu'd with the palsie, (letchers common ill)
By tempring of quick-siluer quickly cought:
Their riches are the droppings of their nose,
Where els beside, the slaues are brought so low;
That for three farthings they will beg, and glose,
And sel their soules, & teach what ere they know.
In briefe, when other subtill shifts doe faile,
They fall to coyning, & from thence by course
Through hempen windowes learne to shake their taile,
And loue to die so, lest they liue farre worse.
But soft sir swift (cries one) and puffes with ire,
And cals me prating knaue, that speake so large
Of such a sacred thing, which (but the fire)
Is compact quickly with a little charge:
Yea, when the Grecian Calends come (quoth I)
For why? Philosophie nere knew this art,
But some vaine vpstarts, (sonnes of subtletie,
As Giberis; and witles Salesart
Bacam, and Hermes father of this fraud,
Began the same in termes, and words obscure,
(To studious of deceit and foolish laud,)
Hoping by toyes to make their craft endure:
But let vs marke their misteries and spels
Their vaine Ænigmata and Problemes darke.
First aske they where the flying Eagle dwels,
Next of the dancing fooles, craft coyning clarke,
Then of the Lyon greene, and flying hart.
Next of the Dragon, swallowing his tayle,
Then of the swelling toade, they prattle art,
Next of more blacke, then blacke, they chuse to rayle,
Then of the crowes-head, tell they waighty things,
And straight of Hermes seale, they sighing speake,
Some of their Lutum sapientiæ sings,
Thus on these toies, their bitter iests they breake
Alas, alas, how vanitie hath power
To draw mens minds from vertue, vnder hope
Of fading treasures? Danaas golden shower
Doth rauish wits, and leades them from their scope:
Yet vnto Artists will I sing a saw,
Perhaps may smell of art, though I haue none,
Wherein by reasons light, and natures law,
Ile dreame of beeing, which they build vpon,
There is a thing in substance full compleate,
Not wholely earthly, nor inflam'd too much,
Not simply watrie, though it water eate,
Not sharpest, nor yet dullest in the touch,
A qualitie light felt, and apt in curing,
And somewhat soft, at least wise not too hard,
Not bitter, but in tast some sweet procuring:
Sweet-smelling, much delighting mans regard.
It feedes the eare, it amplifies the thought,
Except to those that know it, it is nought;
Briefly, sweet frend, I thinke of Alchymie,
As erst Thucidides the learned clarke,
Defynd a woman full of honestie:
(In plaine discourse, but not in riddles darke:)
That woman (said the sage) is best of all,
In whose dispraise, or praise, lesse speech is had,
That Alchymie say I is best of all,
Which few mens reasons can approue for bad:
Thus much of Alchymie, and thus an end,
Though thou commend not, frendly I commend.