Old Wisdom Poem by Faeo de Lyre

This sinew of yore, from this day, made
And cannot forerun my heros past.
Playin' 'round nature, as array'd,
Science of date shall but breathe last
Intil a certificate; in that shade,

Let affairs afar, away but greener
Breed. Intil my machine, best; produce,
Recycle and reproduce the inner
Suspicion and intil shall suffuse
My careless buyers with thinner

Doubts intil not. Growth is wont to be
Add'd intil the existin'; to allow
All, better and from all accidie,
Best and on more, good. So how
Do I intil all seein', ask, see,

To meet all, embrace all and intil
All, acquaint; to know all and tell
All and all better, all good, will
Intil all, best. At all d'grees well
To meet with all standin'. I feel,

Experience is my certificate.
In the want of all trade, I want
Intil all vantage and intil all state,
Profess uncommon; out of haunt,
Extravagant, my sinew. Let my hate

Intil none, but for the best learner.
Upon welcome, let! Add'd, blithe shall
I breathe on form. As an earner,
I have liv'd but the mercurial
In want of no deus ex machina

But the echoes and other lives. Praise Him!
I have among the dead list, thus, pass
It black, the passage intil my beam
And quality. Intil explore else, alas!
Intil the nether world, let me seem

And then, forth, intil the Limbo and away;
Then intil the celestial. Let thus
Of several hands in time and sway,
For my estimation and course;
All from an eye-of-God, shall essay.

In that knowledge is power, it is
proteinous to build this anatomy
And fill brim-full, this skull. We kiss
All natural intil this testimony
Of the demi-urge and small voices.