From that which has been said, it may be collected, that the definition of wit (which has been so often attempted, and ever unsuccessfully by many poets,) is only this: That it is a propriety of thoughts and words; or, in other terms, thoughts and words elegantly adapted to the subject. If our critics will join issue on this definition, that we may _convenire in aliquo tertio_; if they will take it as a granted principle, it will be easy to put an end to this dispute. No man will disagree from another's judgment concerning the dignity of style in heroic poetry; but all reasonable men will conclude it necessary, that sublime subjects ought to be adorned with the sublimest, and consequently often, with the most figurative expressions. In the mean time I will not run into their fault of imposing my opinions on other men, any more than I would my writings on their taste: I have only laid down, and that superficially enough, my present thoughts; and shall be glad to be taught better by those who pretend to reform our poetry. Footnote: 1. With all this mitigation, the passage seems horrible bombast. THE STATE OF INNOCENCE, AND FALL OF MAN. ACT I. SCENE I.--_Represents a Chaos, or a confused Mass of Matter; the Stage is almost wholly dark: A Symphony of warlike Music is heard for some time; then from the Heavens, (which are opened) fall the rebellious Angels, wheeling in Air, and seeming transfixed with Thunderbolts: The bottom of the Stage being opened, receives the Angels, who fall out of sight. Tunes of Victory are played, and an Hymn sung; Angels discovered above, brandishing their Swords: The Music ceasing, and the Heavens being closed, the Scene shifts, and on a sudden represents Hell: Part of the Scene is a Lake of Brimstone, or rolling Fire; the Earth of a burnt Colour: The fallen Angels appear on the Lake, lying prostrate; a Tune of Horror and Lamentation is heard._ LUCIFER, _raising himself on the Lake._ _Lucif._ Is this the seat our conqueror has given? And this the climate we must change for heaven? These regions and this realm my wars have got; This mournful empire is the loser's lot: In liquid burnings, or on dry, to dwell, Is all the sad variety of hell. But see, the victor has recalled, from far, The avenging storms, his ministers of war: His shafts are spent, and his tired thunders sleep, Nor longer bellow through the boundless deep. Best take the occasion, and these waves forsake, While time is given.--Ho, Asmoday, awake, If thou art he! But ah! how changed from him, Companion of my arms! how wan! how dim! How faded all thy glories are! I see Myself too well, and my own change in thee.