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