clean by bathing in the Water of Damascus. There wants, methinks, but the Conversion of That, and the Jews, for the accomplishment of the Kingdom of Christ. And as men before their receiving of the Faith, do not without some carnal reluctancies, apprehend the bonds and fetters of it, but find it afterwards to be the truest and greatest Liberty: It will fare no otherwise with this Art, after the Regeneration of it; it will meet with wonderful variety of new, more beautiful, and more delightful Objects; neither will it want Room, by being confined to Heaven. There is not so great a Lye to be found in any Poet, as the vulgar conceit of men, that Lying is Essential to good Poetry. Were there never so wholesome Nourishment to be had (but alas, it breeds nothing but Diseases) out of these ; boasted Feasts of Love and Fables; yet, methinks, the unalterable continuance of the Diet should make us Nauseate it: For it is almost impossieble to serve up any new Dish of that kind. They are all but the Cold-meats of the Antients, new-heated, and new set forth. I do not at all wonder that the old Poets made some rich crops out of these grounds; the heart of the Soil was not then wrought out with continual Tillage: But what can we expect now, who come a Gleaning, not after the first Reapers, but after the very Beggars? Besides, though those mad stories of the Gods and Heroes, seem in themselves so ridiculous; yet they were then the whole Body (or rather Chaos) of the Theologie of those times. They were believed by all but a few Philosophers, and perhaps some Atheists, and served to good purpose among the vulgar, (as pitiful things as they are) in strengthening the authority of Law with the terrors of Conscience, and expectation of certain rewards, and unavoidable punishments. There was no other Religion, and therefore that was better then none at all. But to us who have no need of them, to us who deride their folly, and are wearied with their impertinencies, they ought to appear no better arguments for Verse, then those of their worthy Successors, the Knights Errant. What can we imagine more proper for the ornaments of Wit or Learning in the story of Deucalion, then in that of Noah? why will not the actions of Sampson afford as plentiful matter as the Labors of Hercules? why is not Jeptha's Daughter as good a woman as Iphigenia? and the friendship of David and Jonathan more worthy celebration, then that of Theseus and

Perithous? Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land, yield incomparably more Poetical variety, then the voyages of Ulysses or Eneas? Are the obsolete thread-bare tales of Thebes and Troy, half so stored with great, heroical and supernatural actions (since Verse will needs find or make such) as the wars of Joshua, of the Judges, of David, and divers others? Can all the Transformations of the Gods give such copious hints to flourish and expatiate on, as the true Miracles of Christ, or of his Prophets, and Apostles? what do I instance in these few particulars? All the Books of the Bible are either already most admirable, and exalted pieces of Poesie, or are the best Materials in the world for it. Yet, though they be in themselves so proper to be made use of for this purpose; None but a good Artist will know how to do it: neither must we think to cut and polish Diamonds with so little pains and skill as we do Marble. For if any man design to compose a Sacred Poem, by only turning a story of the Scripture, like Mr. Quarles's, or some other godly matter, like Mr. Heywood of Angels, into Rhyme; He is so far from elevating of Poesie, that he only abases Divinity. In brief, he who can write a prophane Poem well, may write a Divine one better; but he who can do that but ill, will do this much worse. The same fertility of Invention, the same wisdom of Disposition; the same Judgment in observance of Decencies; the same lustre and vigor of Elocution; the same modesty and majestie of Number; briefly the same kind of Habit, is required to both; only this latter allows better stuff, and therefore would look more deformedly, if ill drest in it. I am far from assuming to my self to have fulfilled the duty of this weighty undertaking; But sure I am, that there is nothing yet in our Language (nor perhaps in any) that is in any degree answerable to the Idea that I conceive of it. And I shall be ambitious of no other fruit from this weak and imperfect attempt of mine, but the opening of a way to the courage and industry of some other persons, who may be better able to perform it throughly and successfully.

Miscellanies.

THE

MOTTO.

Tentanda via est, &c.

Hat shall I do to be for ever known,

WH And make the Age to come my own?

I shall like Beasts or Common People dy,
Unless you write my Elegy;

Whilst others Great, by being Born are grown,
Their Mothers Labour, not their own.

In this Scale Gold, in th'other Fame does ly,
The weight of that, mounts this so high.
These men are Fortunes Jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light.

If I, her vulgar stone for either look;

Out of my self it must be strook.

Yet I must on; what sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fames Trumpet hear.

It sounds like the last Trumpet; for it can
Raise up the bur'ied Man.

Unpast Alpes stop me, but I'll cut through all,
And march, the Muses Hannibal.

Hence all the flattering vanities that lay
Nets of Roses in the way.

Hence the desire of Honors, or Estate;
And all, that is not above Fate.

32

Hence Love himself, that Tyrant of my days,
Which intercepts my coming praise.

Come my best Friends, my Books, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gon.

Welcome, great Stagirite, and teach me now
All I was born to know.

Thy Scholars vict'ries thou dost far out-do;

He conquer'd th' Earth, the whole World you. Welcome learn'd Cicero, whose blest Tongue and Wit Preserves Romes greatness yet.

Thou art the first of Ora'tors; only he

Who best can praise Thee, next must be.
Welcome the Mantu'an Swan, Virgil the Wise,
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies.
Who brought green Poesie to her perfect Age;
And made that Art which was a Rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three, what shall I do
To be like one of you.

But you have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit
On the calm flour'ishing head of it,

And whilst with wearied steps we upward go,
See Us, and Clouds below.

TEL

ODE.

of Wit.

I.

Ell 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,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Like Spirits in a Place, we know not How.

[2.]

London that vents of false Ware so much store,
In no Ware deceives us more.

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,
We take a Falling Meteor for a Star.

3.

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.
'Tis not a Tale, 'tis not a Fest
Admir'd with Laughter at a feast,
Nor florid Talk which can that Title gain;
The Proofs of Wit for ever must remain.

4.

'Tis not to force some lifeless Verses meet
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.

Such Miracles are ceast; and now we see
No Towns or Houses rais'd by Poetrie.

5.

Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each part;
That shows more Cost, then Art.
Jewels 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 ' th' skie, If those be Stars which paint the Galaxie.