University of Virginia Library

To his Lady Book.

Come, Book, my Mistris, neither proud nor coy,
The gay nor impudent Mymicks thee enjoy;
Nor all the empty revellings of vice
Ravish a sweetnesse, virtue's her own price:
Thou shalt unlock me th' treasuries of the deep,
For me earths bosome shall her riches keep;
Which to an heav'nly quintessence I'le refine,
As the last fire earth will for heav'n calcine.
So better'd Nature shall my servant be:
Mine the Elixir of Philosophy.
Thus I the golden age again will bring;
From dregs of th' iron age out gold shall spring.
Then I'le to th' Sky, it Atlas-like uphold,
While I th' Star-spangled Canopy unfold.
The Heav'ns a Book, the Stars the Letters be,
Where I will spell out ridling Destiny.
Then heav'ns twelve houses I'le to tenements make,
And for them rent, will by Astrology take.
Hence I'le slide down into the silent grave,
And of the sleeping world the riches have.
Unravel Ages past, and from th' dark night
And Chaos of Confusion, force a light.
And quicken fire from ashes of each Urn,
Where hallow'd tapers shall to light me burn.
The present teach, and future: Correct th' age past;
'Tis Knowledge Empire must to ages last.
The wise man is the King none can depose:
Can th' Cockatrice crush ith' egg, unking his foes.
Can rebel passions unto reasons bar,
Which menace Soul and Fortune with a war.
Then States and Churches, Fancy ravels through,
This Oedipus those Sphinxes can undo.
In Aph'risms truth imprison'd I'le set free;
Her th' bottom of the well can't hide from me:
Nor th' αυτος εφη of the Ottoman race,
To raise himself all others would deface.
I'le laugh at him with Aristotles scolds,
Believes no light but what's dark lanthorn holds.
Or Galens scurf, thinks th' quintessence of art,
Who what Elixir was could ne're impart.
Can he of Natures privy Councel be,
Shew rooms within, who ne're did intrails see?
Strange Lapidaries price of gems would tell
Viewing the Cask, not what within doth dwell.
Sev'n year of study thus of famine be,
The soul not sated with Philosophy.
All dream like Pharaoh, but no Josephs here,
Egyptian Sages wise in vain appear.
See th' walking Library, whom men Doctor call,
A scold well disciplin'd, learnedly can brawl:
Like Cadmus souldiers notions in his brain,
By mutual quarrels have each other slain.
Hath tympanies of terms, a Cobweb net
Of pois'nous theses for a Fly can set.
Like the fish Sleve, which presents a sword,
Yet by inspection doth no heart afford.
Though seeming vigour and acutenesse be,
There is no heart in their Philosophy.
A shallow puddle doth resemblance bear
Of Sun, Moon, Stars, and all heav'ns glory there:
Yet with a finger you may fathom it:
Seas are too deep for th' Stagirites great wit.
He on his followers shallownesse doth intail;
From th' bottom of the well truth gets no bail.
Surely they dream, if dreams in fancy be:
Fancies are Maxims of Philosophy.