An Encomium on the three Books of Cornelius Agrippa
Knight, By Eugenius Philalethes.
Great, glorious Pen-man! whom I ſhould not name,
Leſt I might Seem to meaſure Thee by Fame.
Natures Apoſtle, and her Choice High Prieſt,
Her Myſticall, and bright Evangeliſt.
How am I rapt when I contemplate Thee,
And winde my ſelf above All that I ſee!
The Spirits of thy Lines infuſe a Fire
Like the Worlds Soul, which makes me thus aſpire:
I am unbody’d by thy Books, and Thee,
And in thy Papers finde my Extaſie.
Or if I pleaſe but to deſcend a ſtrain,
Thy Elements do skreen my Soul again.
I can undreſs my Self by thy bright Glaſs,
And then reſume th’ Incloſure, as I was.
Now I am Earth, and now a Star, and then
A Spirit: now Star, and Earth agen;
Or if I will but ramaſte all that be,
In the leaſt moment I ingroſs all Three.
I ſpan the Heaven and Earth, and things above,
And which is more, joyn Natures with their Jove.
He Crowns my Soul with Fire, and there doth ſhine
But like the Rain-bow in a Cloud of mine.
Yet there’s a Law by which I diſcompoſe
The Aſhes, and the Fire it ſelf diſcloſe
But in his Emrald ſtill He doth appear;
They are but Grave-clothes which he ſcatters here.
Who ſees this Fire without his Mask, His Eye
Muſt needs be ſwallow’d by the Light, and die.
Thſe are the Myſteries for which I wept
Glorious Agrippa, where thy Language ſlept,
Where thy dark Texture made me wander far,
Whiles through that pathleſs Night, I trac’d the ſtar,
But I have found thoſe Myſteries, for which
Thy Book was more then thrice-pil’d o’re with Pitch.
Now a new Eaſt beyond the ſtars I ſee
Where breaks the Day of thy Divinitie:
Heav’n ſtates a Commerce here with Man, had He
But gratefull Hands to take, and Eyes to ſee.
Hence you fond School-men, that high truths deride,
And with no Arguments but Noyſe, and Pride;
You that damn all but what your ſelves invent,
And yet find nothing by Experiment;
Your Fate is written by an unſeen Hand,
But his Three Books with the Three worlds ſhall ſtand.
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