Classic Poem

Who now that hears this sounding Drum ,
Thinks, such Noise can, from Nothing come?
And yet the Causes seem no less,
For what are Wind , and Emptiness?
A hollow Inside , and nought there,
But what, is shut in every where;
Air , which all empty things does fill,
It self, an empty Nothing still.
This almost Nothing , seems to be,
Ev'n fruitful , in Variety ;
And while it does with Eccho 's meet,
Many new Nothings , does beget.

Th' imprison'd Air within , once broke,
Thickens in sounds , with ev'ry Stroke ,
And wounded thus it self, around,
Communicates each moving Sound ,
Until the hollow Woods , become,
But each of them, a hollow Drum ;
Who, in their swift Consent have show'n,
That Noise , like Silence , dwells alone .

Great Talkers , that with all their Dinne ,
Nothing of solid , have within ,
Who make a noise , and promise fair,
But yet examin'd, are but Air ,
When to Performances they come,
Prove louder Nothings , like this Drum .