_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 _Zeuxis' Bird_, 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_. III. 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. IV. 'Tis not to force some Lifeless _Verses_ meet, With their five gouty Feet. All ev'ry where, like _Man's_, must be the _Soul_, And _Reason_ the _inferior Pow'rs_ controul. Such were the _Numbers_ which could call The _Stones_ into the _Theban_ Wall. Such _Miracles_ are ceas'd, and now we see No _Towns_ or _Houses_ rais'd by _Poetry. V. Yet 'tis not to adorn, and gild each Part, That shews 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' Sky. If those be _Stars_ which paint the _Galaxy_. VI. '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 Poetry_. 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. VII. 'Tis not such _Lines_ as almost crack the _Stage_, When _Bajazet_ begins to rage; Not a tall _Metaphor_ in th' _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 _Pow'r Divine_, We only can by _Negatives_ define? VIII. In a true Piece of _Wit_, all Things must be, Yet all Things there _agree_; As in the _Ark_, join '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 the strange _Mirror_ of the _Deity_. IX. But _Love_, that moulds _one Man_ up out of _two_, Makes me forget, and injure you. I took _You_ for _Myself_, 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 only shew your _Lines_, and say, _'Tis this_.