Dedications to Mathew Harbert and Thomas Henshaw; verses on the author

To my Learned, and much Respected friend, Mr. MATHEW HARBERT.

SIR,

I Know you are not Great, there's a better title, you are Good. I might have fix'd this Piece to a Pinnacle, made the Dedication high: but to what purpose? Greatness is a Thing I cannot admire in others, because I desire it not in my self. It is a proud Follie, a painted ceremonious Raunt. There is nothing Necessarie in it, for most men live without it, and I may not applie to that, which my Reason declines, as well as my Fortune. The Truth is, I know no use of Hog hens and Titulados, if they are in an humor to give, I am no Beggar to receive. I look not any thing Sir, but what the Learned are inrich'd withall, Judgement, and Candor. You are a true friend to Both, and to my third self. This Discourse I shuffl'd up for your spare-houres, for it was born in a Vacation, when I did not so much labour, as play. I was indeed necessitated to some Levity, for my Adversarie proved so impotent, I might not draw out all my forces, because I knew not where to employ them. You have here a simple Bedlam corrected, and whipt for his mad Tricks. A certain Master of Arts of Cambridge, & a Poet in the Loll & Trot of Spencer. It is suppos'd he is in Love with his Fairie-Queen, & this hath made him a very Elf in Philosophie. He is indeed a scurvie, slabbie, snotty-snowted thing. Hee is troubl'd with a certain Splenetic loosnes, & hath such squirts of the Mouth, his Readers cannot distinguish his Breath from his Breech. He is a new kind of Pythonist, speakes no man knows what, & his Bulls have much of his Belly. But I have studied a Cure answerable to his Disease, I have bin somwhat Corrosive, and in defiance to the old Phrase, I have wash'd a Moore clean. I have put his Hog-noddle in pickle, & here I present him to the world, a Dish of Sous'd Non-sence. This is my Subject Sir, & now I must tell you, my Address to your self hath somthing of Duty in it. I had no sooner left Milke for Meat, but my first Learning came from you. Bee pleas'd to accept this small Acknowledgement from

Some ten dayes after the Presse was deliverd of my Adversarie's MAURO. MANGO.

Your Pupill, & servant E. P. From Heliopolis 1650.

TO The most Excellently accomplish'd, my best of Friends, Mr. THOMAS HENSHAW.

SIR,

IT was the Quaere of Solomon, and it argued the Supremacie of his wisedom, What was best for Man to doe all the dayes of his Vanitie under the Sun? If I wish my selfe so Wise, as to know this great Affaire of Life, it is because you are fit to manage it. I will not advise you to pleasures, to build Houses, and plant Vine-yards: to inlarge your private Possessions, or to multiplie your Gold and Silver. These are old Errors, like Vitriol to the stone; So many false Receipts which Solomon hath tried before you, And behold all was vanitie, and vexation of Spirit. I have sometimes seen Actions as various, as they were great, and my own sullen Fate hath forc'd me to severall Courses of life, but I finde not one hitherto, which ends not in Surfets, or Satietie. Let us fansie a man as fortunate as this world can make him; What doth hee doe but move from Bed to Boord, and provide for the Circumstances of those two Scenes? To day hee eates and drinkes, then sleeps, that hee may doe the like to morrow. A great Happinesse! to live by cloying Repetitions, and such as have more of Necessity, than of a free pleasure. This is Idem per Idem, and what is held for Absurditie in Reason, can not by the same reason be the true perfection of Life. I deny not but Temporall blessings conduce to a Temporall Life, and by Consequence are pleasing to the Body, but if we consider the Soule, shee is all this while upon the wing, like that Dove sent out of the Ark, seeking a place to rest: shee is busied in a restless Inquisition, and though her Thoughts, for want of true Knowledge, differ not from Desires, yet they sufficiently prove she hath not found her Satisfaction. Shew me then but a practice wherein my Soule shall rest without any further Disquisition, for this is it, which Solomon calls Vexation of Spirit, and you shew mee, What is Best for Man to doe under the Sun. Surely, Sir, this is not the Philosophers stone, neither will I undertake to define it, but give me leave to speak to you in the Language of Zoroaster: Quaere Tu Animae Canalem.

I have a better Confidence in your Opinion of mee, than to tell you, I love you: and for my present Boldness, you must thank your self, you taught me this Familiaritie. I here trouble you with a short Discourse, the Brokage and weake Remembrances of my former, and more intire studies; It is no labour'd Peece, and indeed no fit Present, but I beg your Acceptance as of a Caveat, that you may see, what unprofitable Affections you have Purchased. I propose it not for your Instruction, Nature hath already admitted you to her Schoole, and I would make you my Judge, not my Pupill. If therefore amongst your serious and more deare Retirements, you can allow this Trifle but some few Minutes, and think them not lost, you will Perfect my Ambition. You will place mee Sir, at my full Height, and though it were like that of Statius, amongst Gods and Stars, I shall quickly find the Earth again, and with the least Opportunitie present my self

Sir, Your most humble Servant, E. P.

On the Author's Vindication, and Replie to the scurvie, scribling, scolding Alazonomastix

'T was well he did assault thee, or thy Foe
Could not have hit to thy Advantage so.
what he styles Ignorance, is Depth in Sense;
He thinks there is no skill, but Common Fense.
Had Bacon liv'd in this unknowing Age,
And seen Experience laugh'd at on the Stage,
What Tempests would have risen in his Bloud
To side an Art, which Nature hath made Good?

Do'st think that Knowledge comes to thee Innate,
As Preaching on a sudden to thy Pate?
No sure; thou art a simpler Brother; fie!
I must Allarum thee with Hue and Cry.
What art? from Whence? a Presbyterian sure,
An Academic Ratt, holy and pure.
But for thy Soule (and Plato tells thee so)
Thou hast spoil'd that, and plaister'd Plato too.
Just like I. T. thy Poet, who doth lend
Thee fansies in Cleveland from end to end,
And not one right apply'd; you doe mistake
The Stagyrit's Philosophie, and make
His Logic Magicall, what is unknown
Is Conjuration, frothie, and high-flown.
If Arguments arise, you streight grow hoarse,
Thou know st not what belongs to Topic Course.
Shall thou and I to Disputation come
Practic or Theorie, for the Totall summe?
What? is't not lawfull for my (learned) friend
T'improve his Reason to his greatest end?
Or shall wee envie him, 'cause hee hath more
Of Nature's favours set upon his Score?
Tell mee in earnest do'st thou think 'tis fit
To believe all that Aristotle writ?
Though he was blinded, yet Experience can
Sever the Clouds, and make a Clearer man.
If Digbie once but view thy rayling Ueine,
Hee'l think th'art Atoms, not yet form'd to braine;
Then to the Pot thou go'st: Oh there's the Losse!
There's no Elixir in Thee, th'art all Drosse.
Then sing another Song, thou that controules
Our Metempsychosis of Bodi'ed Soules:
Yet Platonist thou art, but canst not tell
Where these mysterious spirits have their Cell.
Thus Ambrose flung dark Persius on the ground,
A blind Contempt! because he was profound.
Look neerer man, can'st not distinguish yet
Betwixt the highest, and the lowest wit.
When Cynthia to the watrie Tethis hies
Wee know not there what Treasures she espies,
What Margarits in Chrystall streames; she sends
Onely to us her Influence, and lends
A kind, large Light. But thou poore, trapt Rattoon!
Like Scythian Dogs, do'st bark against the Moon.
Great, rare Eugenius! doe not thou delay
Thy Course, because his Dirt lyes in thy way.
Stain thy white skin for once, and bee thou not
Surpris'd like Ermins, by the dawbing Plot.
Mount to thy full Meridian, let thy Star
Create a Rubric to our Calendar,
And wee will offer Anthems to thy shrine
So long as Date can give a Name to Time.

P. B. A. M. Oxoniens.