The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America, Part 2
Of the foure Humours in Mans conſtitution.
THe former foure, now ending their Diſcourſe,
Ceaſing to vaunt, their good, or threat their force.
Loe! other foure ſtep up, crave leave to ſhew
The native qualities, that from each flow,
But firſt they wiſely ſhew'd their high deſcent,
Each eldeſt Daughter to each Element;
Choler was own'd by Fire, and Blood by Aire,
Earth knew her black ſwarth childe, Water her faire;
All having made obeyſance to each Mother,
Had leave to ſpeake, ſucceeding one the other;
But 'mongſt themſelves they were at variance,
Which of the foure ſhould have predominance;
Choler hotly claim'd, right by her mother,
Who had precedency of all the other.
But Sanguine did diſdaine, what ſhe requir'd,
Pleading her ſelfe, was moſt of all deſir'd;
Proud Melancholy, more envious then the reſt,
The ſecond, third, or laſt could not digeſt;
She was the ſilenceſt of all the foure,
Her wiſedome ſpake not much, but thought the more.
Cold flegme, did not conteſt for higheſt place,
Only ſhe crav'd, to have a vacant ſpace.
Wel, thus they parle, and chide, but to be briefe,
Or wil they nil they, Choler wil be cheife;
They ſeeing her imperioſity,
At preſent yeelded, to neceſſity.
Choler.
TO ſhew my great deſcent, and pedigree,
Your ſelves would judge, but vain prolixity.
It is acknowledged, from whence I came,
It ſhal ſuffice, to tel you what I am:
My ſelf, and Mother, one as you ſhal ſee,
But ſhe in greater, I in leſſe degree;
We both once Maſculines, the world doth know,
Now Feminines (a while) for love we owe
Unto your Siſter-hood, which makes us tender
Our noble ſelves, in a leſſe noble Gender.
Though under fire, we comprehend all heat,
Yet man for Choler, is the proper ſeat.
I in his heart erect my regal throne,
Where Monarch-like I play, and ſway alone,
Yet many times, unto my great diſgrace,
One of your ſelves are my compeers, in place:
Where if your rule once grow predominant,
The man proves boyiſh, ſottiſh, ignorant,
But if ye yeeld ſub-ſervient unto me,
I make a man, a man i'th higheſt degree,
Be he a Souldier, I more fence his heart
Then Iron Corſlet, 'gainſt a ſword or dart;
What makes him face his foe, without appal?
To ſtorme a Breach, or ſcale a City wal?
In dangers to account himſelf more ſure,
Then timerous Hares, whom Caſtles doe immure?
Have ye not heard of Worthies, Demi-gods?
'Twixt them and others, what iſt makes the odds
But valour, whence comes that? from none of you;
Nay milk-ſops, at ſuch brunts you look but blew,
Here's Siſter Ruddy, worth the other two,
That much wil talk, but little dares ſhe do,
Unleſſe to court, and claw, and dice, and drink,
And there ſhe wil out-bid us all, I think;
She loves a Fiddle, better then a Drum,
A Chamber wel, in field ſhe dares not come;
She'l ride a Horſe as bravely, as the beſt,
And break a ſtaffe, provided't be in jeſt,
But ſhuns to look on wounds, and bloud that's ſpilt,
She loves her ſword, only becauſe its gilt;
Then here's our ſad black Siſter, worſe then you,
She'l neither ſay, ſhe wil, nor wil ſhe doe:
But peeviſh, Male-content, muſing ſhe ſits,
And by miſpriſions, like to looſe her wits;
If great perſwaſions, cauſe her meet her foe;
In her dul reſolution, ſhe's ſlow.
To march her pace, to ſome is greater pain,
Then by a quick encounter, to be ſlaine;
But be ſhe beaten, ſhe'l not run away,
She'l firſt adviſe, if't be not beſt to ſtay.
But let's give, cold, white; Siſter Flegme her right.
So loving unto all, ſhe ſcornes to fight.
If any threaten her, ſhe'l in a trice,
Convert from water, to conjealed Ice;
Her teeth wil chatter, dead and wan's her face,
And 'fore ſhe be aſſaulted, quits the place,
She dare, not challenge if I ſpeake amiſſe;
Nor hath ſhe wit, or heat, to bluſh at this.
Here's three of you, all ſees now what you are,
Then yeeld to me, preheminence in War.
Again, who fits, for learning, ſcience, Arts?
Who rarifies the intellectuall parts?
Whence flow fine ſpirits, and witty notions?
Not from our dul ſlow Siſters motions:
Nor ſiſter Sanguine, from thy moderate heat,
Poor ſpirits the Liver breeds, which is thy ſeat,
What comes from thence, my heat refines the ſame,
And through the arteries ſends o're the frame,
The vitall ſpirits they're call'd, and wel they may,
For when they faile, man turnes unto his clay:
The Animal I claime, as wel as theſe,
The nerves ſhould I not warm, ſoon would they freeze.
But Flegme her ſelf, is now provok'd at this,
She thinks I never ſhot ſo farre amiſſe;
The Brain ſhe challenges, the Head's her ſeat,
But know'ts a fooliſh brain, that wanteth heat;
My abſence proves, it plain, her wit then flyes
Out at her noſe, or melteth at her eyes;
Oh, who would miſſe this influence of thine,
To be diſtill'd a drop on every line!
No, no, thou haſt no ſpirits, thy company
Wil feed a Dropſie, or a Timpany,
The Palſie, Gout, or Cramp, or ſome ſuch dolor,
Thou waſt not made for Souldier, or for Schollar;
Of greaſie paunch, and palled cheeks, go vaunt,
But a good head from theſe are diſonant;
But Melancholy, wouldſt have this glory thine?
Thou ſayſt, thy wits are ſtai'd, ſubtle and fine:
Tis true, when I am midwife to thy birth;
Thy ſelf's as dul, as is thy mother Earth.
Thou canſt not claime, the Liver, Head nor Heart;
Yet haſt thy ſeat aſſign'd, a goodly part,
The ſinke of all us three, the hatefull ſpleen;
Of that black region, Nature made thee Queen;
Where paine and ſore obſtructions, thou doſt work;
Where envy, malice, thy companions lurke.
If once thou'rt great, what followes thereupon?
But bodies waſting, and deſtruction.
So baſe thou art, that baſer cannot be;
The excrement, aduſtion of me.
But I am weary to dilate thy ſhame;
Nor is't my pleaſure, thus to blur thy name:
OnelyOnly to raiſe my honours to the Skyes,
As objects beſt appear, by contraries.
Thus arms, and arts I claim, and higher things;
The Princely quality, befitting Kings.
Whoſe Serene heads, I line with policies,
They're held for Oracles, they are ſo wiſe.
Their wrathfull looks are death, their words are laws;
Their courage, friend, and foe, and ſubject awes,
But one of you would make a worthy King:
Like our fixt Henry, that ſame worthy thing.
That when a Varlet, ſtruck him o're the ſide,
Forſooth you are to blame, he grave reply'd.
Take choler from a Prince, what is he more,
Then a dead Lyon? by beaſts triumpht ore.
Again, ye know, how I act every part:
By th' influence I ſend ſtill from the heart.
Its not your muſcles, nerves, nor this nor that:
Without my lively heat, do's ought thats flat.
The ſpongy Lungs, I feed with frothy blood.
They coole my heat, and ſo repay my good.
Nay, th' ſtomach, magazeen to all the reſt,
Without my boiling heat cannot digeſt.
And yet to make, my greatneſſe far more great:
What differences the Sex, but only heat?
And one thing more to cloſe with my narration.
Of all that lives, I cauſe the propagation.
I have been ſparing, what I might have ſaid,
I love no boaſting, that's but childrens trade:
To what you now ſhal ſay, I wil attend,
And to your weakneſſe, gently condeſcend.
Blood.
GOod ſiſters giveme leave (as is my place)
To vent my griefe, and wipe off my diſgrace.
Your ſelves may plead, your wrongs are no whit leſſe,
Your patience more then mine, I muſt confeſſe.
Did ever ſober tongue, ſuch language ſpeak?
Or honeſtie ſuch ties, unfriendly break?
Do'ſt know thy ſelfe ſo well, us ſo amiſſe?
Is't ignorance, or folly cauſeth this?
Ile only ſhew the wrongs, thou'ſt done to me.
Then let my ſiſters, right their injury.
To pay with railings, is not mine intent,
But to evince the truth, by argument.
I will annaliſe, thy ſo proud relation;
So ful of boaſting, and prevarication.
Thy childiſh incongruities, Ile ſhow:
So walke thee til thou'rt cold, then let thee go.
There is no Souldier, but thy ſelfe thou ſay'ſt,
No valour upon earth, but what thou haſt.
Thy fooliſh provocations, I deſpiſe.
And leave't to all, to judge where valour lyes.
No pattern, nor no Patron will I bring,
But David, Judah's moſt heroyick King:
Whoſe glorious deeds in armes, the world can tel,
A roſie cheek'd muſitian, thou know'ſt wel.
He knew how, for to handle, Sword and Harpe,
And how to ſtrike ful ſweet, as wel as ſharpe.
Thou laugh'ſt at me, for loving merriment:
And ſcorn'ſt all Knightly ſports, at turnament.
Thou ſayſt I love my ſword, becauſe tis guilt:
But know, I love the blade, more then the hilt.
Yet do abhorre, ſuch timerarious deeds,
As thy unbridled, barb'rous Choler yeelds.
Thy rudeneſſe counts, good manners vanity,
And real complements, baſe flattery.
For drink, which of us twain, like it the beſt,
Ile go no further then thy noſe for teſt.
Thy other ſcoffes not worthy of reply:
Shal vaniſh as of no validity.
Of thy black calumnies, this is but part:
But now Ile ſhew, what Souldier thou art.
And though thou'ſt uſ'd me, with opprobrious ſpight,
My ingenuity muſt give thee right.
Thy Choler is but rage, when tis moſt pure.
But uſeful, when a mixture can indure.
As with thy mother Fire, ſo 'tis with thee,
The beſt of al the four, when they agree.
But let her leave the reſt, and I preſume,
Both them and all things elſe, ſhe will conſume.
Whil'ſt us, for thine aſſociates thou takeſt,
A Souldier moſt compleat in al points makeſt.
But when thou ſcorn'ſt to take the helpe we lend,
Thou art a fury, or infernal Fiend.
Witneſſe the execrable deeds thou'ſt done:
Nor ſparing Sex, nor age, nor ſire, nor ſon.
To ſatisfie thy pride, and cruelty
Thou oft haſt broke bounds of humanity.
Nay ſhould I tel, thou wouldſt count me no blab,
How often for the lye, thou'ſt giv'n the ſtab.
To take the wal's a ſin, of ſuch high rate,
That naught but blood, the ſame may expiate.
To croſſe thy wil, a challenge doth deſerve.
So ſpils that life, thou'rt bounden to preſerve.
Wilt thou this valour, manhood, courage cal:
Nay, know 'tis pride, moſt diabolical.
If murthers be thy glory, tis no leſſe.
Ile not envy thy feats, nor happineſſe.
But if in fitting time, and place, on foes;
For Countries good, thy life thou darſt expoſe:
Be dangers neer ſo high, and courage great,
Ile praiſe that fury, valour, choler, heat.
But ſuch thou never art, when al alone;
Yet ſuch, when we al four are joyn'd in one.
And when ſuch thou art, even ſuch are we.
The friendly coadjutors, ſtil to thee.
Nextly, the ſpirits thou do'ſt wholly claime,
Which natural, vital, animal we name.
To play Philoſopher, I have no liſt;
Nor yet Phiſitian, nor Anatomiſt.
For acting theſe, I have nor wil, nor art,
Yet ſhal with equity give thee thy part,
For th' natural, thou doſt not much conteſt,
For there are none, thou ſay'ſt, if ſome, not beſt.
That there are ſome, and beſt, I dare averre;
More uſeful then the reſt, don't reaſon erre;
What is there living, which cannot derive
His life now animal, from vegative?
If thou giv'ſt life, I give thee nouriſhment,
Thine without mine, is not, 'tis evident:
But I, without thy help can give a growth,
As plants, trees, and ſmall Embryon know'th,
And if vital ſpirits do flow from thee,
I am as ſure, the natural from me;
But thine the nobler, which I grant, yet mine
Shal juſtly claime priority of thine;
I am the Fountaine which thy Ciſterns fils,
Through th' warme, blew conduits of my veinal rils;
What hath the heart, but what's ſent from the liver?
If thou'rt the taker, I muſt be the giver:
Then never boaſt of what thou do'ſt receive,
For of ſuch glory I ſhal thee bereave;
But why the heart, ſhould be uſurpt by thee,
I muſt confeſſe, is ſomewhat ſtrange to me,
The ſpirits through thy heat, are made perfect there,
But the materials none of thine, that's cleare,
Their wondrous mixture, is of blood, and ayre,
The firſt my ſelf, ſecond my ſiſter faire,
But I'le not force retorts, nor do thee wrong,
Thy fiery yellow froth, is mixt among.
Challenge not all, 'cauſe part we do allow,
Thou know'ſt I've there to do, as wel as thou;
But thou wilt ſay, I deale unequally,
There lives the iraſcible faculty:
Which without all diſpute, is Cholers owne;
Beſides the vehement heat, only there known,
Can be imputed unto none, but Fire;
Which is thy ſelf, thy Mother, and thy Sire;
That this is true, I eaſily can aſſent,
If ſtil thou take along my Aliment,
And let me be thy Partner, which is due,
So wil I give the dignity to you.
Again, ſtomachs concoction thou doſt claime,
But by what right, nor do'ſt, nor canſt thou name;
It is her own heat, not thy faculty,
Thou do'ſt unjuſtly claime, her property,
The help ſhe needs, the loving Liver lends,
Who th'benefit o'th' whole ever intends:
To meddle further, I ſhal be but ſhent,
Th' reſt to our Siſters, is more pertinent.
Your ſlanders thus refuted, takes no place,
Though caſt upon my guiltleſſe bluſhing face;
Now through your leaves, ſome little time i'le ſpend;
My worth in humble manner, to commend.
This hot, moiſt, nurtritive humour of mine,
When 'tis untaint, pure, and moſt genuine
Shal firſtly take her place, as is her due,
Without the leaſt indignity to you;
Of all your qualities I do partake,
And what you ſingly are, the whole I make.
Your hot, dry, moyſt, cold, natures are foure,
I moderately am all, what need I more:
As thus, if hot, then dry; if moiſt, then cold;
If this can't be diſprov'd, then all I hold:
My vertues hid, i've let you dimly ſee;
My ſweet complexion, proves the verity,
This ſcarlet die's a badge of what's within,
One touch thereof ſo beautifies the skin;
Nay, could I be from all your tangs but pure,
Mans life to boundleſſe time might ſtil endure;
But here's one thruſts her heat, where'ts not requir'd
So ſuddenly, the body all is fir'd:
And of the ſweet, calme temper, quite bereft,
Which makes the manſion, by the ſoul ſoon left;
So Melancholly ceaſes on a man;
With her uncheerful viſage, ſwarth and wan;
The body dryes, the minde ſublime doth ſmother,
And turns him to the wombe of 's earthy mother,
And Flegme like wiſe can ſhew, her cruel art,
With cold diſtempers, to pain every part;
The Lungs, ſhe rots, the body weares away,
As if ſhe'd leave no fleſh to turn to clay,
Her languiſhing diſeaſes, though not quick,
At length demoliſhes the faberick,
All to prevent, this curious care I take;
Ith' laſt concoction, ſegregation make.
Of all the perverſe humours from mine owne,
The bitter choler, moſt malignant knowne
I turn into his cel, cloſe by my ſide,
The Melancholly to the Spleen to 'bide;
Likewiſe the Whey, ſome uſe I in the veines,
The over plus I ſend unto the reines;
But yet for all my toyl, my eare, my skil,
It's doom'd by an irrevocable wil:
That my intents ſhould meet with interruption,
That mortal man, might turn to his corruption.
I might here ſhew, the nobleneſſe of minde,
Of ſuch as to the Sanguine are inclin'd,
They're liberal, pleaſant, kinde, and courteous,
And like the Liver, all benignious;
For Arts, and Sciences, they are the fitteſt,
And maugre (Choler) ſtil they are the witteſt,
An ingenious working phantaſie,
A moſt volumnious large memory,
And nothing wanting but ſolidity.
But why, alas, thus tedious ſhould I be?
Thouſand examples, you may daily ſee
If time I have tranſgreſt, and been too long,
Yet could not be more breif, without much wrong.
I've ſcarce wip'd off the ſpots, proud Choler caſt,
Such venome lyes in words, though but a blaſt,
No braggs i've us'd, t'your ſelves I dare appeale,
If modeſty my worth do not conceale.
I've us'd no bitterneſſe, nor taxt your name,
As I to you, to me, do ye the ſame.
Melancholy.
HE that with two aſſaylents hath to do,
Had need be armed wel, and active too,
Eſpecially when freindſhip is pretended:
That blow's moſt deadly, where it is intended;
Though Choler rage, and raile, i'le not do ſo,
The tongue's no weapon to aſſault a foe,
But ſith we fight with words, we might be kind,
To ſpare our ſelves, and beat the whiſtling winde.
Faire roſie Siſter, ſo might'ſt thou ſcape free,
I'le flatter for a time, as thou did'ſt me,
But when the firſt offenders I have laid,
Thy ſoothing girds ſhal fully be repaid;
But Choler, be thou cool'd, or cha…'d, i'le venter,
And in contentions liſts, now juſtly enter.
Thy boaſted valour ſtoutly's been repell'd,
If not as yet, by me, thou shalt be quell'd:
What mov'd thee thus to villifie my name?
Not paſt all reaſon, but in truth all shame:
Thy fiery ſpirit ſhal bear away this prize,
To play ſuch furious pranks I am too wiſe;
If in a Souldier raſhneſſe be ſo precious,
Know, in a General its moſt pernicious.
Nature doth teach, to ſheild the head from harm,
The blow that's aim'd thereat is latch'd by th'arm,
When in Battalia my foes I face,
I then command, proud Choler ſtand thy place,
To uſe thy ſword, thy courage, and thy Art,
For to defend my ſelf, thy better part;
This warineſſe count not for cowardiſe,
He is not truly valiant that's not wiſe;
It's no leſſe glory to defend a town,
Then by aſſault to gain one, not our own.
And if Marcellus bold, be call'd Romes ſword,
Wiſe Fabius is her buckler: all accord.
And if thy haſte, my ſlowneſſe ſhould not temper,
'Twere but a mad, irregular diſtemper;
Enough of that, by our Siſter heretofore,
I'le come to that which wounds me ſomewhat more:
Of Learning, and of Policie, thou would'ſt bereave me,
But's not thy ignorance ſhal thus deceive me.
What greater Clerke, or polititian lives?
Then he whoſe brain a touch my humour gives.
What is too hot, my coldneſſe doth abate;
What's diffluent, I do conſolidate.
If I be partial judg'd, or thought to erre,
The melancholy Snake ſhal it aver.
Thoſe cold dry heads, more ſubrilly doth yeild,
Then all the huge beaſts of the fertile field.
Thirdly, thou doſt confine me to the ſpleen,
As of that only part I was the Queen:
Let me as wel make thy precincts, the gal;
To priſon thee within that bladder ſmal.
Reduce the man to's principles, then ſee
If I have not more part, then al ye three:
What is without, within, of theirs, or thine.
Yet time and age, ſhal ſoon declare it mine.
When death doth ſeize the man, your ſtock is loſt,
When you poor bankrupts prove, then have I moſt.
You'l ſay, here none ſhal ere diſturbe my right;
You high born (from that lump) then take your flight
Then who's mans friend, when life and all forſakes?
His mother (mine) him to her wombe retakes,
Thus he is ours, his portion is the grave.
But whilſt he lives, Ile ſhew what part I have.
And firſt, the firme dry bones, I juſtly claim:
The ſtrong foundation of the ſtately frame.
Likewiſe the uſeful ſpleen, though not the beſt,
Yet is a bowel cal'd wel as the reſt.
The Liver, Stomach, owes it thanks of right.
The firſt it draines, o'th' laſt quicks appetite,
Laughter (though thou ſavſt malice) flowes from hence,
Theſe two in one cannot have reſidence.
But thou moſt groſly do'ſt miſtake, to thinke
The Spleen for al you three, was made a ſinke.
Of al the reſt, thou'ſt nothing there to do;
But if thou haſt, that malice comes from you.
Again, you often touch my ſwarthy hew,
That black is black, and I am black, tis true;
But yet more comely far, I dare avow,
Then is thy torrid noſe, or braſen brow.
But that which ſhewes how high thy ſpight is bent,
In charging me, to be thy excrement.
Thy loathſome imputation I deſie;
So plain a ſlander needeth no reply.
When by thy heat, thou'ſt bak'd thy ſelfe to cruſt,
Thou do'ſt aſſume my name, wel be it juſt;
This tranſmutation is, but not excretion,
Thou wants Philoſophy, and yet diſcretion.
Now by your leave, Ile let your greatneſſe ſee;
What officer thou art to al us three.
The Kitchin Drudge, the cleanſer of the ſinks,
That caſts out all that man or eates, or drinks.
Thy bittering quality, ſtil irretates,
Til filth and thee, nature exhonorates.
If any doubt this truth, whence this ſhould come;
Show them thy paſſage to th' Duodenum.
If there thou'rt ſtopt, to th' Liver thou turn'ſt in,
And ſo with jaundiſe, Safferns al the skin.
No further time ile ſpend, in confutations,
I truſt I've clear'd your ſlandrous imputations.
I now ſpeake unto al, no more to one;
Pray hear, admire, and learn inſtruction.
My vertues yours ſurpaſſe, without compare:
The firſt, my conſtancy, that jewel rate.
Choler's too raſh, this golden gift to hold.
And Sanguine is more fickle many fold.
Here, there, her reſtleſſe thoughts do ever flye;
Conſtant in nothing, but inconſtancy,
And what Flegme is, we know, likewiſe her mother,
Unſtable is the one, ſo is the other.
With me is noble patience alſo found,
Impatient Choler loveth not the ſound.
VVhat Sanguine is, ſhe doth not heed, nor care.
Now up, now down, tranſported like the Aire.
Flegm's patient, becauſe her nature's tame.
But I by vertue, do acquire the ſame.
My temperance, chaſtity, is eminent,
But theſe with you, are ſeldome reſident.
Now could I ſtain my ruddy ſiſters face,
With purple dye, to ſhew but her diſgrace.
But I rather with ſilence, vaile her ſhame;
Then cauſe her bluſh, while I dilate the ſame.
Nor are ye free, from this inormity,
Although ſhe beare the greateſt obloquie.
My prudence, judgement, now I might reveale,
But wiſdome 'tis, my wiſdom to conceale.
Unto diſeaſes not inclin'd as ye:
Nor cold, nor hot, Ague, nor Pluriſie;
Nor Cough, nor Quinſie, nor the burning Feavor.
I rarely feel to act his fierce indeavour.
My ſickneſſe cheifly in conceit doth lye,
What I imagine, that's my malady.
Strange Chymera's are in my phantaſie,
And things that never were, nor ſhal I ſee.
Talke I love not, reaſon lyes not in length.
Nor multitude of words, argues our ſtrength;
I've done, pray Siſter Flegme proceed in courſe,
We ſhal expect much ſound, but little force.
Flegme.
PAtient I am, patient i'd need to be,
To bear the injurious taunts of three,
Though wit I want, and anger I have leſſe,
Enough of both, my wrongs for to expreſſe;
I've not forgot how bitter Choler ſpake,
Nor how her Gaul on me ſhe cauſleſſe brake;
Nor wonder 'twas, for hatred there's not ſmal,
Where oppoſition is diametrical:
To what is truth, I freely wil aſſent,
(Although my name do ſuffer derriment)
What's ſlanderous, repel; doubtful, diſpute;
And when i've nothing left to ſay, be mute;
Valour I want, no Souldier am, 'tis true,
I'le leave that manly property to you;
I love no thundering Drums, nor bloody Wars,
My poliſh'd skin was not ordain'd for skars,
And though the pitched field …'ve ever fled,
At home, the Conquerours, have conquered:
Nay, I could tel you (what's more true then meet)
That Kings have laid their Scepters at my feet,
When ſiſter Sanguine paints my Ivory face,
The Monarchs bend, and ſue, but for my grace;
My Lilly white, when joyned with her red,
Princes hath ſlav'd, and Captains captived:
Country with Country, Grecce with Aſia fights,
Sixty nine Princes, all ſtout Hero Knights.
Under Troys wals, ten years wil waſt away,
Rather then looſe, one beauteous Hellena;
But 'twere as vain, to prove the truth of mine,
As at noon day to tel, the Sun doth ſhine.
Next difference betwixt us twain doth lye,
Who doth poſſeſſe the Brain, or thou, or I;
Shame forc'd thee ſay, the matter that was mine,
But the ſpirits, by which it acts are thine;
Thou ſpeakeſt truth, and I can ſpeak no leſſe,
Thy heat doth much, I candidly confeſſe,
But yet thou art as much, I truly ſay,
Beholding unto me another way.
And though I grant, thou art my helper here,
No debtor I, becauſe 'tis paid elſe where;
With all your flouriſhes, now Siſters three,
Who is't or dare, or can compare with me;
My excellencies are ſo great, ſo many,
I am confounded, 'fore I ſpeak of any:
The Brain's the nobleſt member all allow,
The ſcituation, and form wil it avow,
Its ventricles, membrances, and wond'rous ner,
Galen, Hipocrates, drives to a ſet.
That divine Eſſence, the immortal Soul,
Though it in all, and every part be whole:
Within this ſtately place of eminence,
Doth doubtleſſe keep its mighty reſidence;
And ſurely the Souls ſenſative here lives,
Which life and motion to each Creature gives,
The conjugations of the parts toth 'brain
Doth shew, hence flowes the power which they retain;
Within this high built Cittadel doth lye,
The Reaſon, Fancy, and the Memory;
The faculty of ſpeech doth here abide,
The ſpirits animal, from whence doth ſlide,
The five moſt noble Sences, here do dwel,
Of three, its hard to ſay, which doth excel;
This point for to diſcuſſe longs not to me,
I'le touch the Sight, great'ſt wonder of the three;
The optick nerve, coats, humours, all are mine,
Both watry, glaſſie, and the chriſtaline.
O! mixture ſtrange, oh colour, colourleſſe,
Thy perfect temperament, who can expreſſe?
He was no foole, who thought the Soul lay here,
Whence her affections, paſſions, ſpeak ſo clear;
O! good, O bad, O true, O traiterous eyes!
What wonderments, within your bals there lyes?
Of all the Sences, Sight ſhal be the Queen;
Yet ſome may wiſh, oh, had mine eyes ne're ſeene.
Mine likewiſe is the marrow of the back,
Which runs through all the ſpondles of the rack,
It is the ſubſtitute o'th royal Brain,
All nerves (except ſeven paire) to it retain;
And the ſtrong ligaments, from hence ariſe,
With joynt to joynt, the entire body tyes;
Some other parts there iſſue from the Brain,
Whoſe uſe and worth to tel, I muſt refrain;
Some worthy learned Crooke may theſe reveal,
But modeſty hath charg'd me to conceal;
Here's my epitome of excellence,
For what's the Brains, is mine, by conſequence;
A fooliſh Brain (ſaith Choler) wanting heat,
But a mad one, ſay I, where 'tis too great,
Phrenſie's worſe, then folly, one would more glad,
With a tame foole converſe, then with a mad,
Then, my head for learning is not the fitteſt,
Ne're did I heare that Choler was the witt'eſt;
Thy judgement is unſafe, thy fancy little,
For memory, the ſand is not more brittle.
Again, none's fit for Kingly place but thou,
If Tyrants be the beſt, i'le it allow;
But if love be, as requiſite as feare,
Then I, and thou, muſt make a mixture here:
Wel, to be breif, Choler I hope now's laid,
And I paſſe by what ſiſter Sanguine ſaid;
To Melancholly i'le make no reply,
The worſt ſhe ſaid, was, inſtability,
And too much talk; both which, I do confeſſe,
A warning good, hereafter i'le ſay leſſe.
Let's now be freinds, 'tis time our ſpight was ſpent,
Leſt we too late, this raſhneſſe do repent,
Such premiſes wil force a ſad concluſion,
Unleſſe we 'gree, all fals into confuſion.
Let Sanguine, Choier, with her hot hand hold,
To take her moyſt, my moiſtneſſe wil be bold;
My cold, cold Melanchollies hand ſhal claſp,
Her dry, dry Cholers other hand ſhal graſp;
Two hot, two moiſt, two cold, two dry here be,
A golden Ring, the Poſey, Unity:
Nor jars, nor ſcoffs, let none hereafter ſee,
But all admire our perfect amity;
Nor be diſcern'd, here's water, earth, aire, fire,
But here's a compact body, whole, entire:
This loving counſel pleas'd them all ſo wel,
That Flegme was judg'd, for kindneſſe to excel.