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4 No true antiphony. Grant him a space

To save himself from craggy Caucasus

Before you make a rainbow of a maid.

Ah, you've the true mathesis, sir, the pure

Sciential. Step by step your logic mind

Works to the core of things; seeks me out first

An elixation, seething of the thoughts

Hot in the stew-pan of the brain before

Elixir's had. All true philosophy

Progresses thus; expulsion here, and here

Assation till the pure digested truth

Turns into fire,—else there is myopsy

And phantoms seen.

The true mathesis, Fritz!

You mark? I'm hailed philosopher.

His eye

Reflects a certain doubt upon his tongue.