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Esimerkit

• 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[1] wore, Which sweet Callimachus so sung before; 20 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.