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Anonymous Alchemical Poems

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I Shew you here a short Conclusion,
To understand it if ye have grace,
Wrighten without any delusion;
Comprehended in a litle space.
All that is in this Booke wrighten is,
In the place comprehended is,
How Nature worketh in her kinde,
Keepe well this Lesson in your minde:
I have declared micle thing,
If you have grace to keepe in minde,
How that our Principle is One thing,
More in Number and One in kinde;
For there ben things Seven
That in a Principle doe dwell,
Most precious under Heven,
I have so sworne I may not tell.
In this Booke I shew to you in wrighting,
As my Brethren doe each one,
A similitude of every like thing,
Of which we make our Stone.
Our Stone is made of a simple thing,
That in him hath both Soule and Lyfe,
He is Two and One in kinde,
Married together as Man and Wife:
Our Sulphur is our Masculine,
Our Mercury is our Femenine,
Our Earth is our Water cleere;
Our Sulphur also is our Fier,
And as Earth is in our Water cleare,
Soe is Aer in or Fier.
Now have yee Elements foure of might,
And yet there appeareth but two in sight;
Water and Earth ye may well see,
Fier and Aer in them as quality:
Thys Scyence maie not be taught to every one,
He were acurst that so schould done:
How schould ye have Servants than?
Than non for other would ought done,
To tyl the Lande or drive the Plough,
For ever ech man would be proud enough;
Lerned and leude would put them in Presse,
And in their workes be full busie,
But yet thay have but little increse,
The writings to them is so misty.
It is full hard this Scyence to finde,
For Fooles which labour against kinde;
This Science I pray you to conceale,
Or else with it do not you meale,
For and ye canot in it prevaile,
Of much sorrow rhen may you tell:
By suddain mooving of Elements Nature may be letted,
And wher lacks Decoction no perfection may be,
For some Body with leprosy is infected;
Raw watery humors cause superfluity:
Therefore the Philosopher in his reason hath contrived
A perfect Medicine, for bodyes that be sick,
Of all infirmetyes to be releeved,
This heleth Nature and prolongeth lyfe eak;
This Medicine of Elements being perfectly wrought,
Receypts of the Potecary we neede not to buy,
Their Druggs and Dragms we set at nought,
With quid pro quo they make many aly.
Our Aurum potabile Nature will increase,
Of Philosophers Gold if it be perfectly wrought,
The Phisitians with Minerall pureth him in prese:
Litle it availeth or else right nought.
This Scyence shall ye finde in the old boke of Turb;
How perfectly this Medicine Philosophers have wrought,
Rosary with him also doth record,
More then four Elements we occupie nought;
Comune Mercury and Gold we none occupie,
Till we perfectly have made our Stone,
Then with them two our Medicine we Multiply,
Other recepts of the Potecary truly we have none.
A hundred Ounces of Saturne [Lead] ye may well take;
Seeth them on the fire and melt him in a mould,
A Projection with your Medicin upon hem make,
And anon yee shall alter him into fine Gold;
One Ounce upon a hundred Ounces is sufficient,
And so it is on a thousand Ounces perfectly wrought,
Without dissolucion and Subtillant;
Encreasing of our Medicine els have we nought.
Joy eternall and everlasting blisse,
Be to Almyghty God that never schal miss.

In some Copies I found these following
Verses set before this Worke.

Earth out of Earth clensed pure,
By Earth of himselfe through his nature,
Rectified by his Milke who can it tye,
And afterward united with Water of lyfe truly:
A Dragon lying in his deepe denne,
Rotting in Water to Putrefie then:
Leprouse huge and terrible in sight,
By bathing and balning the Dragon cometh to light;
Evermor drowned in th bottome of his Well,
Tyl all his Leprousie will no longer dwell,
In his owne Nature he altereth claene
Into a pure substance, ye wat what I meane.
I shew you here a short Conclusion, &c.


I Schal yow tel wyth hert mode,
Of three Kynggys that ben so goude,

And how thaye came to God almyght,
The wich was ther a sweet syght.

I figure now howr besset [blessed] Stone,
Fro Heven wase send downe to Solomon:

By an Angele bothe goude and stylle,
The wych wase than Christis wylle.

The present of hem in Bedlem than,
To Cryst brwght Aurum Tus & Myrham.

Owre Sol and Sulphir wyth his Mercuri,
Both Bodi and Soule wyth oure Luneyre.

Aurum betokeneth heer, owre Bodi than,
The wych was brwght to God and Man.

And Tus alleso owre Soule of lyfe,
Wyth Myrham owre Mercurye that ys hys Wyfe.

Here be the thre namys fayre and good
And alle thaye ben but one in mode.

Lyke as the Trenite ys but on,
Ryght so conclude the Phylosofeers Stone.

Thow mayst a se her now in syght,
Off owre Stone figuriet a right.

How sende he wase out of Heven,
By an Angele wyth mylde Stefyn.

And by hys fygure thow mayst se
That hyt ys lyke to personis Thre.

To Fader and Sonne and holi Gost,
The wych was and ys of mytis most;

Into hys blyse now come wee,
Amen goud Lord for cheyte.


Her ys an Erbe men call Lunayrie,
I blesset mowte hys maker bee.
Asterion he ys, I callet alle so,
And other namys many and mo;
He ys an Erbe of grete myght,
Of Sol the Sunn he taketh hys lyght,
He ys the Fader, to Croppe and Rote;
Wyth fragrant Flowris that ben sote,
Flowrys to bere in that stede,
Swm ben Whyte, and swm ben Red:
Hys Lewys [Leaves] grwyth, both day and nyght,
Lyke to the Ferment that ys so bright:
I shall declare, thys Erbe so lyght,
To many a man hyt ys a fayre seyght;
Frist at the Rote I wolle begynne,
That cawsyth alle things for to sprynge;
A growyth a pon a Mowntayne brym,
Where Febis hath grete dominacion:
The Sunne by day, the Mone by nyght,
That maketh hym both fayre and bryght,
The Rote growyth on stonns clere,
Whyte and Rede, that ys so peyre:
The Rote ys blacke, the Stalke ys red;
The wyche schall ther never be dede,
The Lewis [Leaves] be rownd, as a Nowbel son,
And wexsyth and wanyth as the Mon:
In the meddes a marke the brede of a peni,
Lo thys is lyke to owre sweght Lunayre:
Hys Flowyrs schynith, fayre and cler,
In all the Worlde thaye have non pere,
He ys not fownde in no manner wise,
But of a Schepeherd in Godis servyse:
The good Schepeherd that I her mene,
Ys he that keepeth hys Sowle clene:
Hys Flowyrs ben gret and sum ben small,
Lyke to hem that growyth in Dale;
With many a vertue both fayre and cler,
As ther ben dayes in alle the yere,
Fro fallyng Ewel and alle Sekeneys,
From Sorowe he brengyth man to Bles;
Unto that blese that wee maye come,
Byth the help of Marys Sonne:
And of hys Moder that ys so fre,
Amen good Lord for cherite.

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