CHRISOGANUS

And I to be a servant unto all. The wisest was a fool for saying so: That Oracle pronounced wise Socrates: For do I know I see you, or the light? Or do you know you here me, or I touch you? If this be certain then which comes from sense, The knowledge proper to the soul is truer; For that pure knowledge by the which we know A thing to be, with true cause how it is, Is more exact then that which knows it is, And reaches not to knowledge of the cause. Beside; that knowledge (that considers things Abiunct from senciue matter) is exacter Then that which joins it self with elements; Arithmetic ever considers numbers Abstract from senciue matter: Music still Considers it with sense, as mixed with found: Therefore Arithmeticque is more exact, And more exact then is Geometry: Since unitas is still simplicior puncto, And number simpler then is magnitude. For Unitas may still be sine puncto, But Punctus never without Unity, Nor; Magnitudo sine Numero. Dum (enim) punctus ponitur, ponitur (ex necessitate) unitas. If we have this we call Scientiam, We must have truth of mere necessity, For Acriueia does not signify, Only a certainty in that we know, But certainty with all perfection. Gentlemen you are welcome. Why no man can attain to any truth, But he must seek it Mathematicé. Arithmetic and Geometry are chief. This sir: the natural Philosopher Considers, things as merely sensible; The Mathematician; ut mente abiunctas a materiam sensibili, But this requires time to satisfy; For it's and Axiom with all men of Art, Mathematicum abstrahentem non comittere mendacium: And (for the beauty of it,) what can be Urged (more extractive) then the face of heaven? The mysteries that Art hath found therein: It is distinguished into Regions, Those Regions filled with sundry sorts of stars: They (likewise) christened with peculiar names, To see a daily use wrought out of them, With demonstrations so infallible, The pleasure cannot be, but ravishing. Why you shall meet with projects so removed From vulgar apprehension, (as for instance,) The Sun here riseth in the East with us, But not of his own proper motion, As being turned by primum mobile, (The heaven above Coelum stellatum ) Whereas his true assent is in the West, And so he consummates his circled course In the Ecliptic line, which parts the Zodiac, Being born from Tropic to Tropic: this time We call a year; whose Hierocliphick was (Amongst the Egyptians figured in a Snake Wreathed circular, the tail within his mouth: As (happily) the atines (since) did call, A Ring, (of the word Annus) Annulus, The Mathematicques are the strength of truth, A Magazine of all perfection. To make you Artists, answers my desire, Rather then hope or mercenary hire. Who was the author of this store, but Peace? That commonwealth is never well at ease, Where Parchment skins, whose use should bear records, Must head their brawling Drums and keep a coil, As if they threatened Plenty with a spoil. What better recreations can you find, Then sacred knowledge in divinest things. Oh! did you but your own true glories know, Your judgements would not then decline so low. 'Tis you my Lord that must forbear to err. A wretched moral; more then barbarous rude. You know as well as I; ten pound a play. And will not this book pass, alas for pride, I hope to see you starve and storm for books, And in the dearth of rich invention, When sweet smooth lines are held for precious Then will you fawn and crouch to Poesy, Write on, cry on, yawle to the common sort Of thickskin'd auditors: such rotten stuffs, More fit to fill the pauneh of Esquiline, Then feed the hearings of judicial ears, Ye shades triumph, while foggy Ignorance Clouds bright Apollos beauty: Time will clear, The misty dullness of Spectators Eeys, Then woeful hisses to your fopperies, Oh age when every Scriveners boy shall dip? Profaning quills into Thessaliaes Spring, When every artist prentice that hath read The pleasant pantry of conceits, shall dare, To write as confident as Hercules. When every Balladmonger boldly writes: And windy forth of bottle-ale does fill Their purest organ of invention: Yet all applauded and puffed up with pride, Swell in conceit, and load the Stage with stuff, Rakt from the rotten embers of stall jests: Which basest lines best please the vulgar sense Make truest rapture loose pre-eminence. Ye scraps of wit, base Echoes to our voice, Take heed ye siumble not with stalking High? Though fortune reels with strong prosperity. Snmma petit livor, perflant altissima venti, Then poor Chrisoganus, whole envy thee, Whose dusky fortune hath no shining gloss That Envies breath can blast? Oh I could curse This idiot world! This ill nursed age of Peace, That foster all save virtue; comforts all Saving industrious art, the souls bright gem, That crusheth down the sprouting stems of Art, Blasts forward wits with frosty cold contempt, Crowning dull clodds of earth with honours, Wreathe guilding the rotten face of barbarism With the unworthy shine of Eminence. Oh! I could wish my self consumed in air, When I behold these huge fat lumps of flesh, These big-bulkt painted posts, that senseless Ssand, to have their backs pasted with dignity, Quite choking up all passage to respect: These huge Colossi that roll up and down, And fill up all the seat of man with froth Of outward semblance, while pale Artisans. Pine in the shades of gloomy Academes, Faint in pursuit of virtue, and quite tierd For want of liberal food for liberal Art Give up the goal to sluggish Ignorance. Oh whither does my passion carry me? Poor fool, leave prating, envy not their shine, Who still will flourish, though great Fate repine. Have patience worthy Lords, and calm your spirits. Oh stay your rages, Let not Ambition captivate your blood, Make not your hates objects for vulgar eyes. Oh, how this vulture, (vile Ambition,) Tyers on the heart of greatness, and devours, Their bleeding honours, whilst their empty names, Lie chained unto the hill of infamy: Now is the time wherein a melting eye May spend it self in tears, and with salt drops, Write woe, and desolation in the dust, Upon the frighted bosom of our land, Pity and Piety are both exiled, Religion buried with our Father's bones, In the cold earth; and nothing but her face, Left to adorn these gross and impious times. See, see, this common beast the multitude, (Transported thus with fury) how it raves; Threatening all states with ruin, to englut Their bestial and more brutish appetites. Oh you auspicious, and divinest powers, (That in your wisdoms suffer such dread plagues To flow and cover a rebellious land) Give end unto their furies! and driven back The roaring torrent on the Authors heads, That (in their pride of Rage) all eyes may see. Justice hath whips to scourge impiety. Thus Heaven (in spite of fury) can preserve, The trustful innocent, and guiltless Soul; Oh, what a thing is man, that thus forgets The end of his creation; and each hour Strikes at the glory of his maker thus? What brazen vizage, or black iron soul Hath strength to Justify so Godless deeds? He that is most infeoft to Tyranny, The man whose Jaws burn most with thirst of blood, What colours or thin cobweb can he weave, To cover so abhorred iniquities? If then there be no shadow, no pretext, To veil their loathed bodies; what should make Men so enamoured on this Strumpet war. To dote upon her form? when (in her self) She's made of nothing, but infectious plagues. Witness the present Chaos of our Scene, Where every street is chained with links of spoil, Here proud Ambition rides; there Fury flies, Here Horror; and there ruthless Murder stalks, Led on by Ruin, and in Steel and fire, That now on tops of houses; now in vaults, Now in the sacred Temples; here, and there Runs wild. Thou want's a Solan to consort with thee, To prove affliction is the perfect way That leads to Jove's tribunal dignity; Ill hast thou governed thy prosperity, That canst not smile in mere adversity. Look upon me (the poorest slave in show, That ever fortune buried in mishap:) Yet this is Nature's richest lewell-house And teaches me to weep at all your wants. Seest thou this poor and naked bosom here? Dost thou behold this scorned uncovered head? When thou wast rich and Peerless in thy pride, Content did never harbour in thy breast, Nor ere had love, her residence in thee, (I mean the love of perfect happiness) But skillesse grudging from a haughty spirit Did blind thy senses with a slender merit. Whilst I (poor man) not subject to such thought Gave entertain to those sweet blessed babes, Which Sapience brought from Wisdoms holy breast, And thought me rich to have their company. By nursing them in Peace I shunned all Sloth, Nor yet did Plenty make me prodigal: Pride I abhorred and termed the Beggars shield: Nor ever did base Euuie touch my heart. Yet always Love to bear (as Solon said,) A Turtles eye within and Aspics head: Nor could the rattling fury of fierce war Astonish me more then the midnight clock, The Trumpeter to Contemplation: For Poverty, I shake her by the hand, As welcome Lady to this woeful Land. First entertain submission in your souls To frame true concord in one unity. Behold the fair proportion of a man, Whom heavens have created so complete, Yet if the arm make war against the head, Or that the heart rebel against the brain, This elemental body (thus compact,) Is but a scattered Chaos of revenge; Your laws appointed to be positive, (By War confounded) must be brought again. For law is that which Love and Peace maintain. Follow, and I'll instruct you what I can: Why that I will demonstrate to you, thus; Turn a huge wheel: contrary to the sway Place me a fly upon't: the fly (before It can arrive the point from whence it went) Shall sundry times be circumvolved about; Even so the Sun and the affinities: For if you wonder how at one self hour, Two of discordant nature's may be born, As one a King, another some base Swain, One valiant, and the other timorous, Let but two drops of ink or water fallen Directly on so swift a turning wheel, And you shall find them both cast far in sunder. Even so the heavenly Orbs, whirling so fast And so impetuously (project men's fates) Most full of change and contrariety. Proud Lord, poor Art shall wear a glorious crown, When her despisers die to all renown. The more your blame.