Astronomy does our Faith engage, And with dark Notions cheats the Age: But take off its Disguise, you'll see It is as feign'd as Poetry. Else let it for a certain show Whether this Globe has Wings or no, Or _Ovid_ blame, who said, the Sun Did run away with _Phaëton_. I cannot chuse but laugh to think If these poor Moon-calves had no Drink But that same thinnish, blewish Whey Press'd from green Cheese i'th' Milky-way; When Goddesses make the New Moon, How soon they'd throw their Cross-staves down! What is Geometry, I'ld know, But a false Brat of Fancy too? If 'tis a Science, let it tell How far from hence the Stars do dwell; And due proportion give between A _direct_ and a _crooked Line_. Yet while the Dotards sit at home, Each _Line_ is tip't with Golden _Plumme_; And still we find that each _Right-Angle_ Some Gain or other does entangle; As Tonnellers catch Partridge; so Geometricians, you must know, Although in other things but Asses, } They eat, and drink, and sleep with Lasses} Between the Legs of their _Compasses_. } So th' Natural Philosopher 'S perpetual Motion keeps a stir, But straight his Engines rest obtain, And all the Motion's in his brain; Except some easie hand, forsooth, That opens but to fill his mouth. Rhet'rick, which we so much adore, Ne'r had a perfect Orator. And yet their mouths provide; I trow,} As lame and cripled people's do, } Who lie, because they cannot go. } And what is Logick, but a cheat? Nothing, or something worse than it. A _Delphick_ Sword, bends any way } To make Truth yield to Sophistry, } And bring home Gold from _BARBARA_.} The lingring Chymsts blow their fire, Till their own Lamps of Life expire; And searcheth for th' Inchanted stone, Till they themselves grow cold as one; Which they would quickly do, but that 'Tis written in the Book of Fate, The great work (much too great for one) Cannot be carried on alone, But asks more hands; and so another, That's Rich, helps his poor Chymick Brother.