Of Wit

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,

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 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.

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 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

With their five gouty 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.

Yet ’tis not to adorn, and gild each part ;

That shows more Cost, than Art.

Jewels at Nose and Lips but ill appear ;

Rather than 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 ;

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

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 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

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.

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.

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: Written By Somebody On The Window Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin.: Of an Inn at Stirling, on seeing the Royal Palace in ruin. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Miss Ferrier: Enclosing the Elegy on Sir J. H. Blair. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Impromptu On Carron Iron Works: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On The Death Of Sir James Hunter Blair: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On The Death Of John M’Leod, Esq,: Brother to a young Lady, a particular friend of the Author’s. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram To Miss Jean Scott: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Bard At Inverary: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Elegy On “Stella”: The following poem is the work of some hapless son of the Muses who deserved a better fate. There is a great deal of “The voice of Cona” in his solitary, mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone’s language, they would have been no discredit even to that elegant poet.-R.B. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Burlesque Lament For The Absence Of William Creech, Publisher: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram To Miss Ainslie In Church: Who was looking up the text during sermon. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Address To Wm. Tytler, Esq., Of Woodhouselee: With an Impression of the Author’s Portrait. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Hey, Ca’ Thro’ – Boat song: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epitaph For Mr. William Michie: Schoolmaster of Cleish Parish, Fifeshire. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epitaph For William Nicol, Of The High School, Edinburgh: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Lines Written Under The Picture Of The Celebrated Miss Burns: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: A Bottle And Friend: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On Elphinstone’s Translation Of Martial’s Epigrams: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Book-Worms: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram Addressed To An Artist: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Epigram At Roslin Inn: by Robert Burns

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