Collective Poems

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Translator's Pains

Fly Galen hence, Hippocrates be gone;
I will preserve my choice: this is that One,
Whose true Elixir doth preserve the frame
Of Man’s frail nature, vivifies the same;
By heavenly constellated medicine,
Which vulgar count but dross, I count divine.
Let Zoil’s and Momu’s intoxicated brains
Dispraise the Author’s works; Translator’s pains
I’ll foster, cherish with undaunted part
This true sublime Spagyriek noble art.
Proceed then, Friend, make all speak English: why
Should we be barr’d out native liberty?

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