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.
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