My daring rashness and presumptions be To Mars himself an equal legacy. My ill-plac'd avarice--sure 'tis but small-- Jove, to thy flames I do bequeath it all. And my false magic, which I did believe, And mystic lies, to Saturn I do give. My dark imaginations rest you there, This is your grave and superstitious sphere. Get up, my disentangled soul, thy fire Is now refin'd, and nothing left to tire Or clog thy wings. Now my auspicious flight Hath brought me to the empyrean light. I am a sep'rate essence, and can see The emanations of the Deity, And how they pass the seraphims, and run Through ev'ry throne and domination. So rushing through the guard the sacred streams Flow to the neighbour stars, and in their beams --A glorious cataract!--descend to earth, And give impressions unto ev'ry birth. With angels now and spirits I do dwell, And here it is my nature to do well. Thus, though my body you confined see, My boundless thoughts have their ubiquity. And shall I then forsake the stars and signs, To dote upon thy dark and cursed mines? Unhappy, sad exchange! what, must I buy Guiana with the loss of all the sky? Intelligences shall I leave, and be Familiar only with mortality? Must I know nought, but thy exchequer? shall My purse and fancy be symmetrical? Are there no objects left but one? must we In gaining that, lose our variety? Fortune, this is the reason I refuse Thy wealth; it puts my books all out of use. 'Tis poverty that makes me wise; my mind Is big with speculation, when I find My purse as Randolph's was, and I confess There is no blessing to an emptiness! The species of all things to me resort And dwell then in my breast, as in their port. Then leave to court me with thy hated store; Thou giv'st me that, to rob my soul of more. TO I. MORGAN OF WHITEHALL, ESQ., UPON HIS SUDDEN JOURNEY AND SUCCEEDING MARRIAGE.