Classic Poem

The Knave turns quack too, blow'd the chymists coal;
As if each blast, inspir'd their Theophrasts soul.
He talks of salt without a grain of wit;
But Mercury's sure ith' lightnesse of his wit;
Nor doth he want his Sulphur, he hath got
Against the state no less then Powderplot.
Or good from bad by Pyrotechny take,
Or else you poyson may for med'cine make.
Yet the best things corrupted the worst be;
Heav'n or hels spirits are in Chymistrie.