| TELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit, | |
| Thou who Master art of it. | |
| For the First matter loves Variety less; | |
| Less Women love't, either in Love or Dress. | |
| A thousand different shapes it bears, | 5 |
| Comely in thousand shapes appears. | |
| Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now, | |
| Like Spirits in a Place, we know not How. | |
| |
| London that vents of false Ware so much store, | |
| In no Ware deceives us more. | 10 |
| For men led by the Colour, and the Shape, | |
| Like Zeuxes Birds fly to the painted Grape; | |
| Some things do through our Judgment pass | |
| As through a Multiplying Glass. | |
| And sometimes, if the Object be too far, | 15 |
| We take a Falling Meteor for a Star. | |
| |
| Hence 'tis a Wit that greatest word of Fame | |
| Grows such a common Name. | |
| And Wits by our Creation they become, | |
| Just so, as Tit'lar Bishops made at Rome. | 20 |
| 'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Jest | |
| Admir'd with Laughter at a feast, | |
| Nor florid Talk which can that Title gain; | |
| The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain. | |
| |
| 'Tis not to force some lifeless Verses meet | 25 |
| With their five gowty feet. | |
| All ev'ry where, like Mans, must be the Soul, | |
| And Reason the Inferior Powers controul. | |
| Such were the Numbers which could call | |
| The Stones into the Theban wall. | 30 |
| Such Miracles are ceast; and now we see | |
| No Towns or Houses rais'd by Poetrie. | |
| |
| Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part; | |
| That shows more Cost, then Art. | |
| Jewels at Nose and Lips but ill appear; | 35 |
| Rather then all things Wit, let none be there. | |
| Several Lights will not be seen, | |
| If there be nothing else between. | |
| Men doubt, because they stand so thick i'th' skie, | |
| If those be Stars which paint the Galaxie. | 40 |
| |
| 'Tis not when two like words make up one noise; | |
| Jests for Dutch Men, and English Boys. | |
| In which who finds out Wit, the same may see | |
| In An'grams and Acrostiques Poetrie. | |
| Much less can that have any place | 45 |
| At which a Virgin hides her face, | |
| Such Dross the Fire must purge away; 'tis just | |
| The Author Blush, there where the Reader must. | |
| |
| 'Tis not such Lines as almost crack the Stage | |
| When Bajazet begins to rage. | 50 |
| Nor a tall Meta'phor in the Bombast way, | |
| Nor the dry chips of short lung'd Seneca. | |
| Nor upon all things to obtrude, | |
| And force some odd Similitude. | |
| What is it then, which like the Power Divine | 55 |
| We only can by Negatives define? | |
| |
| In a true piece of Wit all things must be, | |
| Yet all things there agree. | |
| As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or strife, | |
| All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life. | 60 |
| Or as the Primitive Forms of all | |
| (If we compare great things with small) | |
| Which without Discord or Confusion lie, | |
| In that strange Mirror of the Deitie. | |
| |
| But Love that moulds One Man up out of Two, | 65 |
| Makes me forget and injure you. | |
| I took you for my self sure when I thought | |
| That you in any thing were to be Taught. | |
| Correct my error with thy Pen; | |
| And if any ask me then, | 70 |
| What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is, | |
| I'll onely shew your Lines, and say, 'Tis This. | |
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