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Number, and Rhime, and that harmonious Sound,
Which never does the Ear with Harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar Arts,
For all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the Structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul;
A Spirit whch inspires the Work throughout,
As that of Nature moves this World about;
A Heat that glows in every word that's writ,
Tis something of Divine, and more than Wit;
It self unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all Men, but describ'd by none.
Where dost thou dwell? what Caverns of the Brain
Can such a vast, and mighty thing contain?
When I, at idle Hours, in vain thy abssence mourn,
O where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away
From Pleasures of the Night and Business of the Day?
Ev'n now to far transported, I am fain
To check thy Course, and use the needful Rein.
As all is Dulness, when the Fancy's bad,
So without Judgment Fancy is but mad;
And Judgment has a bouneless Influence,
Not only in the choice of Words or Sense,
But on the World, of Manners, and on Men;
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;
