On the Honourable Robert Boyl's, Notion of Nature. Tis bravely done, great Boyle has disenthron'd. The Goddess Nature, so unjustly Crown'd, And by the Learn'd so many Ages own'd. Refuge of Atheists, whose supine desire, Pleas'd with that Stage, no farther will aspire: It damps the Theists too, while they assign, To Nature, what's done by a Power divine. We know not how, nor where, to ascribe events, While she's thus Rival to Omnipotence; Sure that alone, the mighty Work can do, The Power that did create, can Govern too: It is not like our sublunary Kings, That must be circumscrib'd to place, and things, Whose straighten'd Power, doth Ministers Elect, That must for them remoter business act, The Omnipresence, of the Power Divine, Argues it need no Deputies assign; Nor is't beneath the Glory of his State, To Rule, Protect the Beings he create: But stop my Pen, blush at thy weak pretence, Tis Boyle, not thee, that must the World convince; Boyle the great Champion of Providence. Whose conquering Truths in an Inquiry drest, Have celebrated Nature dispossest; Not the Vice gerent of Heavens settled Rules, But nice Idea of the erring Schools. Fate, Fortune, Chance, all notional and vain, The floating Fictions of the Poet's brain; The World rejects, yet stupidly prefers, This wild Chimera of Philosophers: This more insinuating Notion lay, Unquestion'd till you made your brave Assay, Which doth the daring Sceptick more confute, Than a suspected Orthodox dispute. They can't pretend Int'rest, thy Lines doth Bribe With which they censure, the Canonick Tribe: 'Twas Love of Truth alone, thy Pen did move, Nor none but thee, could so successful prove. Methinks I all the School-mens Shades espy, Tending thy Tryumphs of Philosophy, And all the pregnant Naturist of Yore, From the Great Stagarite, to Des-Cartes, More, Resigning their Gigantick Notions now, And only what you write for Truth allow. See they have all their renounc'd Volumes brought, (Bidding Mankind believe, what you have Taught;) Asham'd they've been, renown'd so many Years, Each from his blushing Brow his Laurel tares: With their own Hands, in one just Wreath they twine, Adorning that victorious Head of thine. And shall my Female Pen, thy Praise pretend, When Angels only, can enough commend, In Songs, which like themselves, can know no End.