For you, Liberius, I would have you look For your improvement on your table-book; Where you shall find how you bore once a name Both in the rank of fortune and of fame; But others, rising to a higher merit, Darken'd that splendour which you did inherit, Or those mistakes which caus'd you err so far, As your late years have proved canicular. To waste more paper I would never have you, For I'm resolv'd your book will never save you, Nor you from it receive a benefit. Suppress, then, pray thee, thy leaf-falling wit; Merlin's Collections will not serve thy turn, Retire, retire, and slumber in thine[162] urn. Dotage has chill'd thy brain: in silence sleep; "He's wise enough that can his credit keep." For you, Columba, and rare Peregrine, It is your fate to nestle in a clime Of disadvantage: Wisdom bids you build Where you may dwell, and sow in such a field, Where you may reap the harvest you have sown: "Arts unimprov'd are to no purpose shown." Those only may be truly said to know, Whose knowledge pays their country what they owe; And (with the bee) from labour never cease, Till they have stor'd their hives with sweet increase. Which thriving industry, infus'd by nature In such a small political a creature, Might by a native model render thee Conducts of science in astrology: [Sidenote: _Saltibus hirsutis haud spatiantur apes._] For she accounts it as a fruitless toil To browse on suckets in a barren soil. For you, Alatus, mount with airy wing, And to [your] scatter'd nest some feathers bring: Though popular esteem afford delight, It cannot satisfy the appetite. Fame is a painted meat, and cannot feed Nor sate the stomach when it stands in need. This was mine own condition; while I liv'd, I to the highest pitch of fame arriv'd; All the Rialto sounded with my praise, Yet silence shrouded this within few days; For after some few funeral tears were shed, My memory died, before tears went to bed. Yea, in my lifetime, when my state grew low, My fame found none she would conduct me to: And let this caution thee. Though thou swell great In men's conceit, this will not get thee meat. "The only means to raise friends, fame, and store, Is to make industry thy providor." For Atro-Lucus Serands, they be such I would not touch them, lest I should too much Impeach their branded fames: one word for all-- As their disgrace is great, their knowledge small: Let these demoniacs practise less in black, It will discolour all their almanac. But this was not my errand. I would know How ladies with their husbands suit below. Those frolic girls, I mean, and of none else, Who were induc'd by mine and Crinon's spells [MEPHISTOPHILUS _appears and resolves him_. To choose strange bedfellows. Pray, tell me how, Dear Mephistophilus, those wantons do. MEPH. All out of joint: they've left their husbands' bed.