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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External links

Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus

Talking Writing Monster’s Page –

Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh

Poems in English 

• Meg Merrilies poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Lines On The Mermaid Tavern poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Lines from Endymion poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Lines poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Last Sonnet poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• La Belle Dame Sans Merci poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Keen, Fitful Gusts are Whisp’ring Here and There poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Isabella or The Pot of Basil poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• John Keats – John Keats Poems by John Keats
• In Drear-Nighted December poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain’d poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Hyperion poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Hymn To Apollo poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• How Many Bards Gild The Lapses Of Time! poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Hither, Hither, Love poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• His Last Sonnet poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Happy Is England! I Could Be Content poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Give Me Women, Wine, and Snuff poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Fragment of an Ode to Maia poem – John Keats poems by John Keats
• Fill For Me A Brimming Bowl poem – John Keats poems by John Keats

More external links (open in a new tab):

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Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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