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I fear, I shall begin to grow in love

With my dear self, and my most prosp’rous parts,

They do so spring, and burgeon; I can feel

A whimsy in my blood: I know not how,

Success hath made me wanton. I could skip

Out of my skin, now, like a subtle snake,

I am so limber. O! Your parasite

Is a most precious thing, dropped from above,

Not bred ’mongst clods, and clo[d]polles, here on earth.

I muse, the mysterie was not made a science,

It is so liberally professed! Almost,

All the wise world is little else, in nature

But parasites, or sub-parasites. And yet

I mean not those, that have your bare town-art,

To know, who’s fit to feed ’hem; have no house,

No family, no care, and therefore mold

Tales for men’s ears, to bait that sense; or get

Kitchen-invention, and some stale receipts

To please the belly, and the groin; nor those,

With their court-dog-tricks, that can fawn, and fleer,

Make their revenue out of legs, and faces,

Echo my-Lord, and lick away a moth:

But you fine, elegant rascal, that can rise,

And stoop (almost together) like an arrow;

Shoot through the air, as nimbly as a star;

Turn short, as doth a swallow; and be here,

And there, and here, and yonder, all at once;

Present to any humor, all occasion;

And change a visor, swifter, than a thought!

This is the creature, had the art born with him;

Toils not to learn it, both doth practice it

Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks,

Are the true parasites, others but their zanies.