Like a lightning from the skie,

Or an arrow shot by Love,

Or a Bird of his let fly;

Bee't a Sparrow, or a Dove:

With that winged hast, come I,

Loosed from the Sphere of Iove,

To wish good-night

To your delight.

Oh, oh!

In Saturn's name, the Father of my Lord!

What over-charged piece of Melancholie

Is this, breakes in betweene my wishes thus,

With bombing sighes?

No! no Intelligence!

Not yet! and all my vowes now nine dayes old!

Blindnesse of fate! Puppies had seene by this time:

But I see nothing! that I should! or would see!

What meane the Brethren of the Rosie-Crosse

So to desert their votarie!

O! 'tis one

Hath vow'd himselfe unto that aërie order,

And now is gaping for the flie they promis'd him.

I'le mixe a little with him for my sport.

Have I both in my lodging, and my dyet,

My cloathes, and every other solemne charge

Observ'd'hem! made the naked bords my bed!

A fagot for my pillow! hungred sore!

And thirsted after'hem!

To looke gaunt, and leane!

Which will not be.

(Who's that?) yes, and outwatcht,

Yea, and out-walked any Ghost alive

In solitarie circle, worne my bootes,

Knees, armes, and elbowes out!

Ran on the score.

That have I (who suggests that?) and for more

Then I will speake of, to abate this flesh,

And have not gaind the sight;

Nay scarce the sense.

(Voice, thou art right) of any thing but a cold

Wind in my stomacke.

And a kind of whimsie.

Here in my head, that puts me to the staggers,

Whether there be that Brotherhood, or no.

Beleeve fraile man, they be: and thou shalt see.

What shall I see?

Mee.

Thee? Where?

Here. If you

Be Mr. Mere-Foole.

Sir, our name is Mery-Foole.

But by contraction Mere-foole.

Then are you

The wight I seeke: and Sr. my name is Jophiel,

Intelligence to the Sphere of Jupiter,

An aëry jocular spirit, employ'd to you

From Father OVTIS.

OVTIS? who is hee?

Know yee not OVTIS? Then you know Nobody:

The good old Hermit, that was said to dwell

Here in the forrest without trees, that built

The Castle in the aire, where all the Brethren

Rhodostaurotick live. It flyes with wings,

And runnes on wheeles: where Julian de Campis

Holds out the brandisht blade.

Is't possible

They thinke on mee?

Rise, be not lost in wonder,

But heare me, and be faithfull. All the Brethren

Have heard your vowes, salute you, and expect you,

By me, this next returne. But the good Father

Has bin content to die for you.

For mee?

For you. Last New-yeares day, which some give out,

Because it was his Birth-day, and began

The yeare of Jubile, he would rest upon it,

Being his hundred five and twentieth yeare:

But the truth is, having observ'd your Genesis,

He would not live, because he might leave all

He had to you.

What had he?

Had? An office,

Two, three, or foure.

Where?

In the upper Region:

And that you'll find. The Farme of the great Customes,

Through all the Ports of the Aires Intelligences;

Then Constable of the Castle Rosie-Crosse:

Which you must be, and Keeper of the Keyes

Of the whole Kaball, with the Seales; you shall be

Principall Secretarie to the Starres;

Know all their signatures, and combinations,

The divine rods, and consecrated roots.

What not? Would you turne trees up like the wind,

To shew your strength? march ouer heads of armies,

Or points of pikes, to shew your lightnesse? force

All doores of arts, with the petarre, of your wit?

Reade at one view all bookes? speake all the languages

Of severall creatures? master all the learnings

Were, are, or shall be? or, to shew your wealth,

Open all treasures, hid by nature, from

The rocke of Diamond, to the mine of Sea-coale?

Sir, you shall doe it.

But how?

Why, by his skill,

Of which he has left you the inheritance,

Here in a pot: this little gally pot

Of tincture, high rose tincture. There's your Order,

You will ha' your Collar sent you, er't be long.

I lookt Sir, for a halter, I was desperate.

Reach forth your hand.

O Sir, a broken sleeve

Keepes the arme back as 'tis i'the proverbe.

Nay,

For that I doe commend you: you must be poore

With all your wealth, and learning. When you ha'made

Your glasses, gardens in the depth of Winter,

Where you will walke invisible to Man-kind,

Talkt with all birds and beasts in their owne language,

When you have penetrated hills like ayre,

Div'd to the bottome of the Sea, like leade,

And riss' againe like corke, walk't in the fire

An 'twere a Salamander, pass'd through all

The winding orbes, like an Intelligence,

Up to the Empyreum, when you have made

The World your gallery, can dispatch a businesse

In some three minutes, with the Antipodes,

And in five more, negotiate the Globe over;

You must be poore still.

By my place, I know it.

Where would you wish to be now? or what to see?

Without the fortunate purse to beare your charges,

Or wishing hat? I will but touch your temples,

The corners of your eyes, and tinct the tip,

The very tip o' your nose, with this Collyrium

And you shall see i'the ayre all the Idea's,

Spirits, and Atomes, Flies, that buz about

This way, and that way, and are rather admirable,

Then any way intelligible.

O, come, tinct me,

Tinct me: I long, save this great belly, I long.

But shall I onely see?

See, and command

As they were all your varlets, or your foot-boyes:

But first you must declare, (your greatnesse must,

For that is now your stile) what you would see.

Or whom.

Is that my stile? My Greatnesse, then,

Would see King Zoroastres.

Why you shall:

Or any one beside. Thinke whom you please?

Your thousand, Your ten thousand, to a million:

All's one to me, if you could name a myriad.

I have nam'd him.

You'ave reason.

I, I have reason.

Because he's said to be the Father of conjurers,

And a cunning man i'the starres.

I, that's it troubles us.

A little for the present: For, at this time

He is confuting a French Almanack,

But he will straight have done, Ha' you but patience;

Or thinke but any other in meane time,

Any hard name.

Then, Hermes Trismegistus.

O, ὁ τρισμέγιςος? Why, you shall see him,

A fine hard name. Or him, or whom you will,

As I said to you afore. Or what doe you thinke

Of Howle-glasse, in stead of him.

No, him

I have a mind to.

O', but Vlen-spiegle.

Were such a name! but you shall have your longing.

What lucke is this, he should be busie too?

He is waighing water, but to fill three houre-glasses,

And marke the day in pen'orths like a cheese,

And he has done. 'Tis strange you should name him

Of all the rest! there being Jamblicus,

Or Porphyrie, or Proclus, any name

That is not busie.

Let me see Pythagoras.

Good.

Or Plato.

Plato, is framing some Idea's,

Are now bespoken, at a groat a dozen,

Three grosse at least: And, for Pythagoras,

He' has rashly run himselfe on an imployment,

Of keeping Asses from a field of beanes;

And cannot be stav'd off.

Then, Archimedes.

Yes, Archimedes!

I, or Æsope.

Nay,

Hold your first man, a good man, Archimedes,

And worthy to be seene; but he is now

Inventing a rare Mouse-trap with Owles wings

And a Catts-foot, to catch the Mise alone:

And Æsop, he is filing a Fox tongue,

For a new fable he has made of Court;

But you shall see'hem all, stay but your time

And aske in season; Things as'kd out of season

A man denies himselfe. At such a time

As Christmas, when disguising is o'foot,

To aske of the inventions, and the men,

The witts, and the ingines that move those Orbes!

Me thinkes, you should enquire now, after Skelton,

Or Mr. Skogan.

Skogan? what was he?

O' a fine Gentleman, and a Master of Arts,

Of Henry the fourth's times, that made disguises

For the Kings sonnes, and writ in ballad-royall

Daintily well.

But, wrote he like a Gentleman?

In rime! fine tinckling rime! and flowand verse!

With now and then some sence! and he was paid for't,

Regarded, and rewarded: which few Poets

Are now adaies.

And why?

'Cause every Dabler

In rime is thought the same. But you shall see him.

Hold up your nose.

I had rather see a Brachman,

Or a Gymnosophist yet.

You shall see him, Sir.

Is worth them both. And with him Domine Skelton,

The worshipfull Poet Laureat to K. Harry,

And Tytire tu of those times. Advance quick Skogan,

And quicker Skelton, shew your craftie heads,

Before this Heire of arts, this Lord of learning,

This Master of all knowledge in reversion.

Seemeth we are call'd of a morall intent,

If the words that are spoken, as well now be meant.

That Mr. Skogan I dare you ensure.

Then, Sonne, our acquaintance is like to indure.

A pretty game! like Crambe. Mr. Skogan,

Give me thy hand: Thou'rt very leane, me thinks,

Is't living by thy wits?

If it had beene that,

My worshipfull Sonne, thou hadst ne're bin so fat.

He tels you true Sir. Here's a Gentleman

(My paire of crafty Clerkes) of that high caract,

As hardly hath the age produc't his like.

Who not content with the wit of his owne times,

Is curious to know yours, and what hath beene,

Or is, or shall be.

Note his Latitude!

O, vir amplissimus!

(Ut scholis dicimus)

Et gentilissimus!

The question-issimus

Is, should he aske a sight now, for his life;

I meane, a person, he would have restor'd,

To memorie of these times, for a Play-fellow,

Whether you would present him, with an Hermes,

Or, with an Howle-glas?

An Howleglasse

To come, to passe

On his Fathers Asse;

There never was,

By day, nor night,

A finer sight.

With feathers upright

In his horned cap,

And crooked shape,

Much like an Ape.

With Owle on fist,

And Glasse at his wrist.

Except the foure Knaves entertain'd for the guards,

Of the Kings, and the Queenes that triumph in the cards.

I, that were a sight and a halfe, I confesse,

To see'hem come skipping in, all at a messe!

With Elinor Rumming.

To make up the mumming;

That comely Gill,

That dwelt on a hill,

But she is not grill:

Her face all bowsie,

Droopie, and drowsie,

Scurvy, and lowsie,

Comely crinkled,

Wondrously wrinkled,

Like a rost pigs eare,

Bristled with haire.

Or, what doe you say to Ruffian Fitz-Ale?

An excellent sight, if he be not to stale.

But then, we can mix him with moderne Vapors,

The Child of Tobacco, his pipes, and his papers.

You talk'd of Elinor Rumming, I had rather

See Ellen of Troy.

Her you shall see.

But credit mee,

That Marie Ambree

(Who march'd so free.

To the siege of Gaunt,

And death could not daunt,

As the Ballad doth vaunt)

Were a braver wight,

And a better sight.

Or Westminster Meg,

With her long leg,

As long as a Crane;

And feet like a plane:

With a paire of heeles,

As broad as two wheeles;

To drive downe the dew,

As she goes to the stew:

And turnes home merry,

By Lambeth Ferry.

Or you may have come

In, Thomas Thumbe,

In a pudding fatt,

With Doctor Ratt.

I, that! that! that!

Wee'll have'em all,

To fill the Hall.

What! are they vanish'd! where is skipping Skelton?

Or morall Skogan? I doe like their shew

And would have thankt'em, being the first grace

The Company of the Rosie-Crosse hath done me.

The company o'the Rosie-Crosse! you wigion,

The company of Players. Goe, you are,

And will be still your selfe, a Mere-foole, In;

And take your pot of honey here, and hogs greace,

See, who has guld you, and make one. Great King,

Your pardon, if desire to please have trespass'd.

This foole should have beene sent to Antycira,

(The Ile of Ellebore) there to have purg'd,

Not hop'd a happie seat within your waters.

Heare now the message of the Fates, and Jove,

On whom those Fates depend, to you, as Neptune

The great Commander of the Seas, and Iles.

That point of Revolution being come

When all the Fortunate Islands should be joyn'd,

MACARIA, one, and thought a Principall,

That hitherto hath floted, as uncertaine

Where she should fix her blessings, is to night

Instructed to adhere to your BRITANNIA:

That where the happie spirits live, hereafter

Might be no question made, by the most curious,

Since the Macarij come to doe you homage,

And joyne their cradle to your continent.

I, now, the heights of Neptunes honours shine,

And all the glories of his greater stile

Are read, reflected in this happiest Ile.

How both the ayre, the soyle, the seat combine

To speake it blessed!

These are the true groves,

Where joyes are borne.

Where longings,

And where loves!

That live!

That last!

No intermitted wind

Blowes here, but what leaves flowers, or fruit behind.

'Tis odour all, that comes!

And every tree doth give his gummes.

There is no sicknesse, nor no old age knowne

To man, nor any griefe that hee dares owne.

There is no hunger there, nor envy of state.

Nor least ambition in the Magistrate.

But all are even-hearted, open, free,

And what one is, another strives to be.

Here all the day, they feast, they sport, and spring;

Now dance the Graces Hay; now Venus Ring:

To which the old Musitians play, and sing.

There is ARION, tuning his bold Harpe,

from flat to sharpe.

And light Anacreon,

He still is one!

Stesichorus there, too,

That Linus, and old Orpheus doth out-doe

To wonder.

And Amphion! he is there.

Nor is Apollo dainty to appeare

In such a quire, although the trees be thick,

He will looke in, and see the aires be quick,

And that the times be true.

Then, chanting,

Then,

Up, with their notes, they raise the Prince of Men.

And sing the present Prophecie that goes

Of joyning the bright LILLIE, and the ROSE.

See! all the flowers

That spring the banks along,

Doe move their heads unto that under-song.

SARON, PORTVNVS, PROTEVS, helpe to bring

Our Primrose in, the glory of the spring!

And tell the Daffadill, against that day,

That we prepare new Gyrlands fresh as May.

And enter-weave the Myrtle, and the Bay.

Spring all the Graces of the age,

And all the Loves of time;

Bring all the pleasures of the stage,

And relishes of rime:

Adde all the softnesses of Courts,

The lookes, the laughters, and the sports.

And mingle all their sweets, and salts,

That none may say, the Triumph halts.

Behold the Palace of Oceanus!

Hayle Reverend structure! Boast no more to us

Thy being able, all the Gods to feast;

We saw enough: when ALBION was thy guest.

Now turne; and view the wonders of the deepe,

Where Proteus Herds, and Neptunes Orkes doe keepe,

Where all is plough'd, yet still the pastures greene

Now wayes are found, and yet no paths are seene.

Come noble Nymphs, and doe not hide

The joyes, for which you so provide:

If not to mingle with the Men,

What doe you here? Goe home agen.

Your dressings doe confesse,

By what we see, so curious parts

Of Pallas, and Arachnes arts,

That you could meane no lesse.

Why doe you weare the Silk-wormes toyles,

Or glory in the shell-fish spoyles;

Or strive to shew the graines of Ore

That you have gather'd on the shore,

whereof to make a stocke

To graft the greener Emerald on,

Or any better water'd stone,

Or Rubie of the Rocke?

Why doe you smell of Amber-gris,

Of which was formed Neptunes Neice,

The Queene of Love: unlesse you can

Like Sea-borne Venus love a Man?

Try, put your selves unto't.

Your lookes, your smiles, and thoughts that meet,

Ambrosian hands, and silver feet,

Doe promise you will do't.

'Tis time, your eyes should be refresht at length

With something new, a part of NEPTVNES strength,

See yond', his Fleete, ready to goe or come,

Or fetch the riches of the Ocean home,

So to secure him, both in peace, and warres,

Till not one ship alone, but all be starres.

Although we wish the glory still might last

Of such a night, and for the causes past:

Yet now, great Lord of waters, and of Iles,

Give Proteus leave to turne unto his wiles.

And, whilst young ALBION doth thy labours ease,

Dispatch Portunus to the Ports.

And Saron to the Seas:

To meet old Nereus, with his fiftie girles,

From aged Indus laden home with pearles,

And Orient gummes, to burne unto thy name.

And may thy subjects hearts be all on flame,

Whil'st thou dost keepe the earth in firme estate,

And 'mongst the winds, do'st suffer no debate,

But both at Sea, and Land, our powers increase,

With health, and all the golden gifts of Peace.