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.