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.
A few random poems:
- The Douglas Tragedy poem – Andrew Lang poems
- Sacred And Profane Love poem – Alfred Austin
- Владимир Орлов – Где петушок носит гребешок
- Николай Карамзин – Сильфида
- St. Roach by Muriel Rukeyser
- I Wake And Feel The Fell Of Dark, Not Day poem – Gerard Manley Hopkins poems
- Robert Burns: Impromptu On General Dumourier’s Desertion From The French Republican Army:
- Владимир Бенедиктов – Довольно
- Ametas And Thestylis Making Hay-Ropes poem – Andrew Marvell poems
- Epistle to James Smith by Robert Burns
- Epilogue poem – Ezra Pound poems
- Валерий Брюсов – Италия
- The Nautical Why poem – Amy Nawrocki poems | Poems and Poetry
- Lines On The Expected Invasion, 1803 by William Wordsworth
- Sonnet 123: No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change by William Shakespeare
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
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 56. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 66. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 103. The Mountain Spite. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 99. ’Twas One of Those Dreams. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 91. Oh, Ye Dead!. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 85. Oh For the Swords of Former Time. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 58. Farewell! – But Whenever You Welcome the Hour. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 44. She Is Far From the Land. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 26. Erin, Oh Erin. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Mark Akenside. The Pleasures of Imagination. Марк Эйкенсайд.
- English Poetry. Thomas Moore. From “Irish Melodies”. 22. Let Erin Remember the Days of Old. Томас Мур.
- English Poetry. Richard Hovey. The Old Pine. Ричард Хави.
- English Poetry. Richard Hovey. John Keats. Ричард Хави.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Haunted. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Going for the Cows. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Garden and Gardener. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Forevermore. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Finale. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- English Poetry. Madison Julius Cawein. Evasion. Мэдисон Джулиус Кавейн.
- Copywriting Agency Foundation For Prosperous Business
More external links (open in a new tab):
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.
Parallel Translations of Poetry
The Poetry Repository – an online library of poems, poetry, verse and poetic works
Abraham Cowley (1618 – 1667), the Royalist Poet.Poet and essayist Abraham Cowley was born in London, England, in 1618. He displayed early talent as a poet, publishing his first collection of poetry, Poetical Blossoms (1633), at the age of 15. Cowley studied at Cambridge University but was stripped of his Cambridge fellowship during the English Civil War and expelled for refusing to sign the Solemn League and Covenant of 1644. In turn, he accompanied Queen Henrietta Maria to France, where he spent 12 years in exile, serving as her secretary. During this time, Cowley completed The Mistress (1647). Arguably his most famous work, the collection exemplifies Cowley’s metaphysical style of love poetry. After the Restoration, Cowley returned to England, where he was reinstated as a Cambridge fellow and earned his MD before finally retiring to the English countryside. He is buried at Westminster Abbey alongside Geoffrey Chaucer and Edmund Spenser. Cowley is a wonderful poet and an outstanding representative of the English baroque.