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.
Correct my Error with thy Pen,
And if any ask me then,
What thing right _Wit_, and Height of _Genius_ is,
I'll only shew your _Lines_, and say, _'Tis this_.

The _Spirit_ and _Wit_ of this _Ode_ are excellent; and yet it is
evident, through the whole, that Mr. _Cowley_ had no clear Idea of
_Wit_, though at the same time it _shines_ in most of these Lines:
There is little Merit in saying what WIT _is not_, which is the chief
Part of this _Ode_. Towards the End, he indeed attempts to describe what