AN ESSAY ON WIT.

A Gentleman who had some Knowledge in the human Heart, was consulted
about a Tragedy which was going to be acted: He answer'd that there
was so much Wit in the Piece that he doubted of its Success.--At
hearing such a Judgment, a Man will immediately cry out, What! is Wit
then a Fault, at a Time when every Body aims at having it, when nobody
writes but to shew he has it; when the Publick applauds even false
Thoughts, provided they are shining! Yes, 'twill doubtless be
applauded the first Day, and grow tiresome the next.

That which they call Wit, is sometimes a new Simile, sometimes a fine
Allusion: Here 'tis the Abuse of a Word which presents itself in one
Sense, and is understood in another; there a delicate Relation between
two uncommon Ideas: 'Tis an extraordinary Metaphor; 'tis something
which in an Object does not at first present itself, but nevertheless
is in it; 'tis the Art, to unite two Things which were far from one
another; to separate two which seem to be joined, or to set them in
Opposition; 'tis the Art, of expressing but half the Thought and
leaving the other to be found out. In short, I'd tell all the
different Ways of shewing Wit, if I knew of any more.

But all these Brightnesses (and I speak not of the false ones) agree
not, or very seldom agree with a serious Work, which ought to be
interesting. The Reason of it is, that 'tis then the Author that
appears, and the Publick will see no body but the Hero. Moreover the
Hero is always either in a Passion, or in Danger. Danger, and the
Passions seek not Expressions of Wit. _Priam_ and _Hecuba_ don't make
Epigrams, when their Children's Throats are cut and _Troy_ in
Flames:--_Dido_ does not sigh in Madrigals, when she flies to the Pile