A Tetrasyncrasy must of humours be;
Nature from discords produce harmony.
How wisely th' bloody masse is understood?
Two Cholers, black and yellow, phlegm and blood.
Phlegm is so crude it scarce bloods nature takes;
Blood Choler turns, but Choler ne're blood makes.
Yellow to black by heats exuberance tends:
Black into none, see where perfection ends.
When Natures work onely Concoction is,
To gain perfection we arrive at this.
O happy age from imperfections free,
Perfections sure mopish or made to be.