This was Cassandra's loss, whom we allow And hold a prophetess as true as thou But not so well believ'd. Take heed, my blade, Thy late predictions cannot retrograde, And give thine erring notions such a check, As they unlink that chain which decks thy neck. Signs sometimes change their influence, we see: I wish the like event befall not thee. The golden number and saturnian line Have been propitious to thee all thy time: Thy says held oracles: thy observations For death, war, weather, held by foreign nations As positive maxims: yet one critical point Will throw this artful fabric out o' joint. Dog-days each year affords; if thou find none, Thy fortune's clearer far than any one. Let me then caution thee, divining Crinon, Lest thy own bosom prove thy treach'rous Sinon, Let not opinion make thy judgment err: "The ev'ning conquest crowns the conqueror." Hope of reward or one victorious field Is no firm ground for any one to build. May ill success clothe him with discontent, That balanceth the cause by the event. Next him ascend, Erigonus, whose art, Richly embellish'd with a loyal heart, Will not permit thy thoughts to stoop so low As to pretend more than thy notions know, Or can attain to. Thou hast ta'en content With as much freedom under strait restraint, As Pibrack in his paradox express'd, Inwardly cheer'd when outwardly distress'd. I have much mus'd, while thou convers'd with us Of the gradations o' th' Celestial House, Yet hadst none of thine own to shelter thee. This was an humour that transported me: To see a mind so large, and to discourse As if he had got Fortunatus' purse! This caus'd me think that we did greatly err In holding thee a mere astrologer, Though't be a sacred-secret speculation, And highly meriting our admiration: But rather some rare stoic, well content With his estate, however the world went. Yet when I saw thine artificial scheme Exactly drawn, as none of more esteem, I wonder'd much how such choice art could want, Unless the whole world were grown ignorant. I heard of late, what I did never dream, Thy farming life had drawn thee to a team, Preferring th' culture of an husbandman Before a needful astrologian, Who in this thankless age may pine and die, Before he profit by astronomy. For though I must confess an artist can Contrive things better than another man, Yet when the task is done, he finds his pains Nought[161] but to fill his belly with his brains. Is this the guerdon due to liberal arts, T' admire the head, and then to starve the parts? Timely prevention thou discreetly us'd, Before the fruits of knowledge were abus'd. "When learning has incurr'd a fearful damp, To save our oil 'tis good to quench our lamp." Rest, then, on thy enjoyments, and receive What may preserve a life, reserve a grave. This with convenience may supply thy store, And lodge thee with content: what wouldst thou more? While he who thirsts for gold, and does receive it, Pules like a baby when he's forc'd to leave it.