On the Author's Vindication, and Replie to the scurvie, scribling, scolding Alazonomastix

'T was well he did assault thee, or thy Foe Could not have hit to thy Advantage so. what he styles Ignorance, is Depth in Sense; He thinks there is no skill, but Common Fense. Had Bacon liv'd in this unknowing Age, And seen Experience laugh'd at on the Stage, What Tempests would have risen in his Bloud To side an Art, which Nature hath made Good?

Do'st think that Knowledge comes to thee Innate, As Preaching on a sudden to thy Pate? No sure; thou art a simpler Brother; fie! I must Allarum thee with Hue and Cry. What art? from Whence? a Presbyterian sure, An Academic Ratt, holy and pure. But for thy Soule (and Plato tells thee so) Thou hast spoil'd that, and plaister'd Plato too. Just like I. T. thy Poet, who doth lend Thee fansies in Cleveland from end to end, And not one right apply'd; you doe mistake The Stagyrit's Philosophie, and make His Logic Magicall, what is unknown Is Conjuration, frothie, and high-flown. If Arguments arise, you streight grow hoarse, Thou know st not what belongs to Topic Course. Shall thou and I to Disputation come Practic or Theorie, for the Totall summe?

What? is't not lawfull for my (learned) friend T'improve his Reason to his greatest end? Or shall wee envie him, 'cause hee hath more Of Nature's favours set upon his Score? Tell mee in earnest do'st thou think 'tis fit To believe all that Aristotle writ? Though he was blinded, yet Experience can Sever the Clouds, and make a Clearer man. If Digbie once but view thy rayling Ueine, Hee'l think th'art Atoms, not yet form'd to braine; Then to the Pot thou go'st: Oh there's the Losse! There's no Elixir in Thee, th'art all Drosse. Then sing another Song, thou that controules Our Metempsychosis of Bodi'ed Soules: Yet Platonist thou art, but canst not tell Where these mysterious spirits have their Cell. Thus Ambrose flung dark Persius on the ground, A blind Contempt! because he was profound. Look neerer man, can'st not distinguish yet Betwixt the highest, and the lowest wit. When Cynthia to the watrie Tethis hies Wee know not there what Treasures she espies, What Margarits in Chrystall streames; she sends Onely to us her Influence, and lends A kind, large Light. But thou poore, trapt Rattoon! Like Scythian Dogs, do'st bark against the Moon. Great, rare Eugenius! doe not thou delay Thy Course, because his Dirt lyes in thy way. Stain thy white skin for once, and bee thou not Surpris'd like Ermins, by the dawbing Plot. Mount to thy full Meridian, let thy Star Create a Rubric to our Calendar, And wee will offer Anthems to thy shrine So long as Date can give a Name to Time.

P. B. A. M. Oxoniens.