The naked Truth in many faces shewn,

Whose inward Beauties very few hav known,

A simple Light, transparent Words, a Strain

That lowly creeps, yet maketh Mountains plain,

Brings down the highest Mysteries to sense

And keeps them there; that is Our Excellence:

At that we aim; to th' end thy Soul might see

With open Eys thy Great Felicity,

Its Objects view, and trace the glorious Way

Wherby thou may'st thy Highest Bliss enjoy.

No curling Metaphors that gild the Sence,

Nor Pictures here, nor painted Eloquence;

No florid Streams of Superficial Gems,

But real Crowns and Thrones and Diadems!

That Gold on Gold should hiding shining ly

May well be reckon'd baser Heraldry.

An easy Stile drawn from a native vein,

A clearer Stream than that which Poets feign,

Whose bottom may, how deep so'ere, be seen,

Is that which I think fit to win Esteem:

Els we could speak Zamzummim words, and tell

A Tale in tongues that sound like Babel-Hell;

In Meteors speak, in blazing Prodigies,

Things that amaze, but will not make us wise.

On shining Banks we could nigh Tagus walk;

In flow'ry Meads of rich Pactolus talk;

Bring in the Druids, and the Sybills view;

See what the Rites are which the Indians do;

Derive along the channel of our Quill

The Streams that flow from high Parnassus hill;

Ransack all Nature's Rooms, and add the things

Which Persian Courts enrich; to make Us Kings:

To make us Kings indeed! Not verbal Ones,

But reall Kings, exalted unto Thrones;

And more than Golden Thrones! 'Tis this I do,

Letting Poëtick Strains and Shadows go.