He that is master of so rich a store
May laugh at Crœsus and esteem him poor;
And with his smoky sceptre in his fist,
Securely flout the toiling Alchymist,
Who daily labours with a vain expense
In distillations of the Quintessence,
Not knowing that this golden Herb alone
Is the Philosopher’s admired Stone.
It s a favour which the Gods doth please,
If they do feed on smoke, as Lucian says.