To his ingenious friend Mr. Turner, upon his Translation.
Thrice-noble Soul! renown'd Epitome
Of Learning and Occult Philosophie;
That unknown Geomancie dost impart,
With profound Secrets of that abstruse Art!
T' expound Natural Magick is thy task;
Not hell-born Necromancie to unmask;
Exposing Mysteries to publike view,
That heretofore were known to very few.
Thou dost not keep thy Knowledge to thy self,
(As base-covetous Misers do their pels;
Whose numerous bags of rust-eaten gold,
Profits none, till themselves art laid in mold)
But studious of Publike good, dost make
All of th' fruits of thy labours to partake.
Therefore if some captious Critick blame
Thy Writings, surely then his judgement's lame.
Art hath no hater but an empty pate,
Which can far better carp, then imitate.
Nay Zoilus or Momus will not dare
Blame thy Translation, without compare
Excellent, So that if an hundred tongues
Dame Nature had bestow'd and brazen lungs;
Yet rightly to ebuccinate thy praises,
I should want strength, at well as polite phrases.
But if the gods will grant what I do crave,
Then Enoch's Translation shalt thou have.
