My brother and much more, hadst thou been mine, Hadst thou in one rich present of a line Inclos’d sir Francis, for in all this store No gift can cost thee less, or binde me more; Hadst thou (dear churle) imparted his return, I should not with a tardy welcome burn; But had let loose my joy at him long since, Which now will seem but studied negligence: But I forgive thee, two things kept thee from it, First such a friend to gaze on, next a comet; Which comet we discern, though not so true As you at Sion, as long tayl’d as you; We know already how will stand the case, With Barnavelt[65] of universal grace, Though Spain deserve the whole star, if the fall Be true of Lerma duke and cardinal[66]: Marry, in France we fear no blood, but wine; Less danger’s in her sword, than in her vine. And thus we leave the blazers coming over, For our portents are wise, and end at Dover: And though we use no forward censuring, Nor send our learned proctors to the king, Yet every morning when the star doth rise, There is no black for three hours in our eyes; But like a Puritan dreamer, towards this light All eyes turn upward, all are zeal and white: More it is doubtful that this prodigy Will turn ten schools to one astronomy: And the analysis we justly fear, Since every art doth seek for rescue there; Physicians, lawyers, glovers on the stall, The shopkeepers speak mathematics all; And though men read no gospels in these signes, Yet all professions are become divines; All weapons from the bodkin to the pike, The masons rule and taylors yard alike Take altitudes, and th’ early fidling knaves On fluits and hoboyes made them Jacobs-staves; Lastly of fingers, glasses we contrive, And every fist is made a prospective: Burton to Gunter cants[67], and Burton hears From Gunter, and th’ exchange both tongue and ears By carriage: thus doth mired Guy complain, His waggon in their letters bears Charles-Wain, Charles-Wain, to which they say the tayl will reach; And at this distance they both hear and teach. Now, for the peace of God and men, advise (Thou that hast where-withal to make us wise) Thine own rich studies, and deep Harriots mine[68], In which there is no dross, but all refine: O tell us what to trust to, lest we wax All stiff and stupid with his parallax: Say, shall the old philosophy be true? Or doth he ride above the moon, think you? Is he a meteor forced by the sun? Or a first body from creation? Hath the same star been object of the wonder Of our forefathers? Shall the same come under The sentence of our nephews? Write and send, Or else this star a quarrel doth portend. DR. CORBET’S JOURNEY INTO FRANCE.