However, I must acknowledge, that where I have differed from the great Authors before mentioned, it has been with a Diffidence, and after the most serious and particular Examination of what they have delivered.  It is from hence, that I have thought it my Duty, to exhibit with the following Essay, their several Performances upon the same Subject, that every Variation of mine from their Suffrage, and the Reasons upon which I have grounded it, may clearly appear.

The following Ode upon WIT is written by Mr. Cowley.

ODE of WIT.

I.

Tell me, oh 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 diff’rent 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.

II.

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.