Epistolary Form of Chemical Matters

They can but sing a few ludicra plays/jokes or hollow portents,
Which must be examined by their very sound;
Or fit the clay to the furnaces, add the coals,
And roast them in the manner of a bad cook:
Yet they carry themselves without shame many parasangs a unit of distance ahead
Of all the ancients and all the moderns
Distinguished and conspicuous in doctrine:
The rest are but shadows; these men think themselves wiser,
If, indeed, it is to be wise to deceive men with vain
Promises, to sell smoke, to speak falsely,
And for things perceived, known, and often proven,
To give things that are harmful, hidden in deceits, and to be avoided,
And thus to empty the full purses of men,
And to hand over certain weapons of death instead of life.
Who, I ask, with such pride has given such vain trifles
Either without shame or without mind?
Than those whom it now pleases to be called by the name of Paracelsus,
And to chase away all diseases with their own lyre?
Yet this insanity finds many who vouch for it,
And it is not without patronage.
Indeed, the common people are greedy for novelty, and love
To be ruled by emotion rather than by reason.
Hence it happens that many commit their bodies to them,
To whom no one would entrust a single cat,
And dangers are purchased at a higher price,
And death, rather than life and health, can be redeemed.
O the blind minds of men, o blind centuries.
For these morals, how much hellebore an herb thought to cure madness will suffice?
When, I ask, will the world be wise after so many thousand blows?
When is it accustomed to be more cautious at its own expense?
Or when will it offer its ears to healthy monitors?
When will it continue to follow the upright leaders in the art?
Why does it not prefer the best footprints of the ancestors,
And why does each not hold to the path well trodden,
Instead of following one full of such great dangers,
And exposing the body to so many foul monsters?