To Doctor Alablaster.

NOr art thou lesse esteem'd, that I have plac'd
(Amongst mine honour'd) Thee (almost) the last:
In great Processions many lead the way
To him, who is the triumph of the day,
As these have done to Thee, who art the one,
One onely glory of a million,
In whom the spirit of the Gods do's dwell,
Firing thy soule, by which thou dost foretell
When this or that vast Dinastie must fall
Downe to a Fillit more Imperiall.
When this or that Horne shall be broke, and when
Others shall spring up in their place agen:
When times and seasons and all yeares must lie
Drown'd in the Sea of wild Eternitie:
When the Black Dooms-day Bookes (as yet unseal'd)
Shall by the mighty Angell be reveal'd:
And when the Trumpet which thou late hast found
Shall call to Judgment; tell us when the sound
Of this or that great Aprill day shall be,
And next the Gospell wee will credit thee.
Meane time like Earth-wormes we will craule below,
And wonder at Those Things that thou dost know.