Chymic

Till lastly, when by chymic jolt / And sheer corrosion of the thatch, / What time the withering woodlands moult / My love shall moult to match, / And all those curls I loved to beg / For keepsakes on the earth be strewed, / Leaving her cranium like an egg / Incomparably nude.

Less shone the tresses Egypt's princess wore, / Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; / Here courtly trifles set the world at odds, / Belles war with beaux, and whims descend for gods, / The new machines in names of ridicule, / Mock the grave frenzy of the chymic fool.

So the all-seeing sun each day Distills the world with chymic ray.

The subtle chymic can divest / And strip the creature naked, till he find / The callow principles within their nest