So th' Natural Philosopher
'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir,
But straight his Engines rest obtain,
And all the Motion's in his brain;
Except some easie hand, forsooth,
That opens but to fill his mouth.
Rhet'rick, which we so much adore,
Ne'r had a perfect Orator.
And yet their mouths provide; I trow,}
As lame and cripled people's do, }
Who lie, because they cannot go. }
And what is Logick, but a cheat?
Nothing, or something worse than it.
A Delphick Sword, bends any way }
To make Truth yield to Sophistry,}
And bring home Gold from BARBARA.}
The lingring Chymsts blow their fire,
Till their own Lamps of Life expire;
And searcheth for th' Inchanted stone,
Till they themselves grow cold as one;
Which they would quickly do, but that
'Tis written in the Book of Fate,
The great work (much too great for one)
Cannot be carried on alone,
But asks more hands; and so another,
That's Rich, helps his poor Chymick Brother.
Speak, dull Philosopher; what's all
You, in mistake, do Science call?
Since Socrates with much ado,
Learn'd only that he nothing knew.
There's nothing unconfin'd and free,
Except the Soul of Poetry,
When it does on our Organs play.
Throw all your Mystick Books away,
And study Natures Library:
Mount up to Heaven's refulgent Throne,
There by the Lab'ring Muses drawn.
First, pause a while, then Write, and all
The Gods to Convocation call;
Then with Imperious frowns survey
Poor Mortals damn'd to treading clay;
And raising Piles, till pitying Fate
Pulls the brick ruins on their pate.
There laugh at Princes, who do groan
Under the burden of a Crown:
And condemn Riches, which we see}
Is but a Golden Slavery; }
We're Richer far in Poetry. }
But hold!——
I'm almost starv'd, as I'm a Sinner,
Prethee, Jack, Trust me for a Dinner.
Poor Poet! what a wretch th'art grown?
Cast to a Dungeon from a Throne!
Thou who but now did'st reach the Sky,
Low as Despair art forc'd to lie:
Those soaring thoughts thou didst admire,
With thy Poetick rage expire.
'Twas but a Dream, and now I see
Riddles unty'd to Fetter me.
The Angels height procur'd their Thrall,
But 'tis my lowness makes me Fall.
Had Nature giv'n me a Rich Mine,
As other Fops I'd happy been;
Nor had I been exposed thus,
To make my plaints ridiculous.
For Wit and Wealth such Rivals are,
That they can't Reign in the same Sphere,
But as when Kings each other thwart,
Th' unhappy Subjects feel the smart:
So those t' whom Nature has been kind,
Must Fortunes Rage and Malice find.
And 'till these Friends and Partners grow,
Who can have Wit and Money too?
But if the World hath such a Creature,
He's Monstrous, and not made by Nature.
Poets are Chymists, who want skill
To perfect Metals as they will;
Yet Clothes, or Money, what you please,
Be sure they'l turn to Sack with ease;
Then with that Sack they can prepare}
Castles, nay, Kingdoms in the Air, }
And carve themselves whole Lordships there.}
But since they here so disagree
About a paltry Lawrel Tree,
I wonder what a Dev'l they do,
When to these fancy'd Lands they go:
But hold! they'l all be De'ties there,
And every one will have his Sphere.
For all the Gods of which we read,
Were by th' Almighty Poets made:
And they who did their God-heads make,
May at their pleasures take 'em back.