ODE. Of Wit.

TEll me, O tell, what kinde 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,
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.
For men lead by the Colour, and the Shape,
Like Zeuxe's Birds fly to the painted Grape,
Some things do through our Iudgement pass
As through a Multiplying Glass.
And sometimes, if the Object be too far,
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,
Iust so, as Tit'ular Bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Iest
Admir'ed 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
With their five gowty feet.
All ev'ery 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.
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.
Iewels at Nose and Lips but ill appear;
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.

'Tis not when two like words make up one noise,
Iests for Dutch Men, and English Boys.
In which who finds out Wit, the same may see
In An'agrams and Acrostiques Poetrie.
Much less can that have any place
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.
Nor a tall Metaphor in th'Oxford way,
Nor the dry chips of short lung'ed Seneca.
Nor upon all things to obtrude,
And force some odde Similitude.
What is it then, which like the Power Divine
We onely 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.
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.
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,
What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is,
I'll onely shew your Lines, and say, 'Tis This.