of the care and woe That we had in our matters súblimíng, And in amalgaming, and calciníng Of quicksilver, called mercúry crude? For all our sleightës we can not conclude. Our orpiment, and súblim’d mercurý, Our ground litharge eke on the porphyrý, Of each of these of ounces a certáin, Not helpeth us, our labour is in vain. Nor neither our spiríts’ ascensioún, Nor our mattérs that lie all fix’d adown, May in our working nothing us avail; For lost is all our labour and traváil, And all the cost, a twenty devil way, Is lost also, which we upon it lay.
There is also full many another thing That is unto our craft appértainíng, Though I by order them not rehearsë can, Becausë that I am a lewëd man; Yet will I tell them as they come to mind, Although I cannot set them in their kind, As bol-armoniac, verdigris, boráce; And sundry vessels made of earth and glass; Our urinalës, and our descensories, Phials, and croslets, and sublímatories, Cucurbitës, and álembikës eke, And other suchë, dear enough a leek, It needeth not for to rehearse them all. Waters rubifying, and bullës’ gall, Arsenic, sal-armoniac, and brimstóne, And herbës could I