 | Philosophicall fancies |  |
An Epistle to my BRAINE.
I wonder, Braine, thou art so dull, when thereWas not a day, but Wit past, through the yeare.
For seven yeares 'tis, since I have married bin;
Which time, my Braine might be a Magazine,
To store up wise discourse, naturally sent,
In fluent words, which free, and easie went.
If thou art not with Wit inrich'd thereby,
Then uselesse is the Art of Memory.
But thou, poor Braine, hard ftozen art with Cold,
Words Seales, of Wit, will neither print, nor hold.
| Philosophicall fancies | |