Newly brought from's Apothecary. This Saturn's aspects signify,
You see them portray'd in the sky. VI.
Beneath them kneeling on his knee, A superstitious man you see:
He fasts, prays, on his Idol fixt,
Tormented hope and fear betwixt: For Hell perhaps he takes more pain, Than thou dost Heaven itself to gain. Alas poor soul, I pity thee,
What stars incline thee so to be? VII.
But see the madman rage downright With furious looks, a ghastly sight. Naked in chains bound doth he lie, And roars amain he knows not why! Observe him; for as in a glass,
Thine angry portraiture it was.
His picture keeps still in thy presence;
'Twixt him and thee, there's no difference. VIII, IX.
Borage and Hellebor fill two scenes,
Sovereign plants to purge the veins
Of melancholy, and cheer the heart,
Of those black fumes which make it smart; To clear the brain of misty fogs,
Which dull our senses, and Soul clogs. The best medicine that e'er God made For this malady, if well assay'd.
X.
Now last of all to fill a place, Presented is the Author's face; And in that habit which he wears, His image to the world appears. His mind no art can well express,
That by his writings you may guess. It was not pride, nor yet vainglory, (Though others do it commonly) Made him do this: if you must know, The Printer would needs have it so. Then do not frown or scoff at it,
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Deride not, or detract a whit. For surely as thou dost by him, He will do the same again.
Then look upon't, behold and see, As thou lik'st it, so it likes thee. And I for it will stand in view, Thine to command, Reader, adieu.
THE AUTHOR'S ABSTRACT OF MELANCHOLY, Diiiiiii
When I go musing all alone
Thinking of divers things fore-known. When I build castles in the air,
Void of sorrow and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet.
All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go,
Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so mad as melancholy. When to myself I act and smile,
With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen,
A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly,
None so sweet as melancholy. When I lie, sit, or walk alone,
I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then,
A thousand miseries at once
Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce, All my griefs to this are jolly,
None so sour as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities fine;
Here now, then there; the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely or divine.
All other joys to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcries, and fearful sights, My sad and dismal soul affrights.
All my griefs to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. Methinks I court, methinks I kiss,
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Methinks I now embrace my mistress. O blessed days, O sweet content,
In Paradise my time is spent.
Such thoughts may still my fancy move, So may I ever be in love.
All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I recount love's many frights,
My sighs and tears, my waking nights,
My jealous fits; O mine hard fate
I now repent, but 'tis too late. No torment is so bad as love, So bitter to my soul can prove. All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so harsh as melancholy.
Friends and companions get you gone,
'Tis my desire to be alone;
Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacy.
No Gem, no treasure like to this,
'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. All my joys to this are folly,
Naught so sweet as melancholy.
'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown, I will no light nor company,
I find it now my misery.
The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are jolly,
Naught so fierce as melancholy.
I'll not change life with any king, I ravisht am: can the world bring
More joy, than still to laugh and smile, In pleasant toys time to beguile?
Do not, O do not trouble me, So sweet content I feel and see. All my joys to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy.
I'll change my state with any wretch, Thou canst from gaol or dunghill fetch; My pain's past cure, another hell,
I may not in this torment dwell! Now desperate I hate my life, Lend me a halter or a knife;
All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so damn'd as melancholy. DEMOCRITUS JUNIOR TO THE READER.
Gentle reader, I presume thou wilt be very inquisitive to know what antic or personate actor this is, that so insolently intrudes upon this common theatre, to the world's view, arrogating another man's name; whence he is, why he doth it, and what he hath to say; although, as [7]he said, Primum si noluero, non respondebo, quis coacturus est? I am a free man born, and may choose whether I will tell; who can compel me? If I be urged, I will as readily reply as that Egyptian in [8]Plutarch, when a curious fellow would needs
know what he had in his basket, Quum vides velatam, quid inquiris in rem absconditam? It was therefore covered, because he should not know what was in it. Seek not after that which is hid; if the contents please thee, [9]and be for thy use, suppose the Man in
the Moon, or whom thou wilt to be the author; I would not willingly be known. Yet in some sort to give thee satisfaction, which is more than I need, I will show a reason, both of this usurped name, title, and subject. And first of the name of Democritus; lest any man, by reason of it, should be deceived, expecting a pasquil, a satire, some ridiculous treatise (as I myself should have done), some
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prodigious tenet, or paradox of the earth's motion, of infinite worlds, in infinito vacuo, ex fortuita atomorum collisione, in an infinite
waste, so caused by an accidental collision of motes in the sun, all which Democritus held, Epicurus and their master Lucippus of old maintained, and are lately revived by Copernicus, Brunus, and some others. Besides, it hath been always an ordinary custom, as [10]Gellius observes, for later writers and impostors, to broach many absurd and insolent fictions, under the name of so noble a philosopher as Democritus, to get themselves credit, and by that means the more to be respected, as artificers usually do, Novo qui marmori ascribunt Praxatilem suo. 'Tis not so with me.
[11]Non hic Centaurus, non Gorgonas, Harpyasque
Invenies, hominem pagina nostra sapit.
No Centaurs here, or