And now I do awhile but interspire
A torrent of objections ’gainst me beat,
My boldnesse to represse and strength to tire.
But I will wipe them off like summer sweat,
And make their streams streight back again retreat.
If that these worlds, say they, were ever made
From infinite time, how comes ’t to passe that yet
Art is not perfected, nor metalls fade,
Nor mines of grimie coal low-hid in griesly shade.