Of a drunken Paracelsian

WHen Pilo other trades of thrift had mist,
He then profest to be an Alcumist,
That's all too much, Chimist you might him call,
And so I thinke twere true, and leaue out all:
He takes vpon him, he can make a mixture,
Of which he can extract the true elixar,
Tinctur of Pearle and Currall he doth draw,
And Quintessence the best that ere you saw,
He hath the cure, except Aqua Mirabilis,
Only he wants drammes Auri potabilis,
He doth of nature so the secret ferrit,
That he of euery thing can draw the spirit:
Spirits of mynes, spirits of stones and herbes,
Whose names can scant be told with nownes and verbes,
But of all spirits my spirit doth diuine,
His spirit best doth loue the spirit of wine.