You're all Licentiates; though no licenc'd crew,
And titles which you paid for are your due;
Though you by Doctors names intitled be,
Onely to Folly in a high degree.
Letters of commendations fools may gain,
Which pockets carry, th' wise man's in his brain.
Honor's the wise mans bride, fools act a rape.
The Colledge-fruits are sour like the foxes grape;
These like the Dogs in errors darker night,
Bark at the Moon, but cannot reach the light.
Professors might to th' Colledge pupils be,
Gain what you want, in knowledge a degree.
They in arts rudiments could instruct a sage,
Knowledge her self is here in pupillage.
Shine out great lights, your beams for life display,
While death portending Comets blaze and slay.