If things that promife nothing, do contain
What better is than gold, who will disdain,
That have an inkling of it, where to look,
That they may find it? Now, my little book›
(The void of all these paintings that may make
It with this or the other man to take)
Is not without those things that doth excel,
What do in brave but empty notions dwell.
Well, yet I am not fully fatisfy'd (try'd.
That this your book shall ftand, when foundly
Why, what's the matter? Is it dark: What
But it is feign'd: What of that I tro' ? ~ (tho??
Some men by feigned words, as dark as mine,
Make truth to Spangle, and its rays to fhine;
But they want folidness: Speak, man, thy mind:
They drown the weak, metaphors make us blind.
Solidity, indeed, becomes the pen

Of him that writeth things divine to men
But must I needs want folidnefs, because
By metaphors I speak? Were not God's laws
His gofpel-laws, in older times held forth
By types, fhadows, and metaphors ? Yet lath
Will any fober man be to find fault.
With them, left he be found for to assault
The highest Wisdom: No, he rather stoops,
And feeks to find out by what pins and toops,
By calves and Sheep, by heifers and by rams,
By birds and herbs, and by the blood of lambs,
God Speaketh to him; and happy is he
That finds the light and grace that in them be.
Be not too forward therefore to conclude

I want folidness; that I am rude:

All

All things folid is shew not folid be;
All things in parables defpife not we,
Left things most hurtful lightly we receive;
And things that good are of our foul's bereave.
My dark and cloudy words they do but hold
The truth, as cabinets inclofe the gold.

The prophets ufed much by metaphors
To fet forth truth: Yea, whofo confiders
Chrift his apostles too, fhall plainly fee,
That truths to his day in fuch mantles be.
Am I afraid to fay, that holy writ
Which for its ftyle and phrafe puts down all wit,
Is every where so full of all these things,
(Dark figures, allegories)? yet there fprings
From that fame brook, that luftre, and thofe

rays

Of light, that turn our darkest night to days
Come, let my carper to his life now look,
And find there darker lines than in my book.
He findeth any: Tea, and let him know,
That in his best things there are worfe lines to
May we but ftand before impartial men,
To his poor one I dare adventure ten,
That they will take my meaning in thefe lines
Far better than his that lies in filver fhrines.
Come, truth, altho' in fwaddling clouts I find,
Informs the judgment, rectifies the mind;
Pleafes the understanding, makes the will
Submit the
memory too it doth fil
With what doth our imaginations pleafe;
Likewife it tends our troubles to appeafe.

Sound words, I know, Timothy is to use,
And old wives fables he is to refufe:

But yet grave Paul him no where did forbid
The ufe of parables; in which lay hid

That gold, thofe pearls, and precious ftones,
that were

Worth digging for, and that with greatest care.
Let me add one word more. O man of God,
Art thou offended? Doft thou wish I had
Put forth my matter in another dress?
Or, that I had in things been more exprefs?
To thofe that are my betters, (as is fit),
Three things let me propound, then I fubmit.
1. I find not that I am deny'd the ufe
Of this my method, fo I no abufe

Put on the word, things, readers, or be rude,
In handling figure or fimilitude,

In application: but all that I may

Seek the advice of truth this or that way:
Denied, did I fay? Nay, I have leave
(Example too, and that from them that have
God better pleafed, by their words or ways,
Than any man that breatheth now-a-days)
Thus to express my mind, thus to declare
Things unto thee that excellenteft are.

2. I find that men (as high as trees) will write
Dialogue-wife; yet no man doth them flight
For writing fo: Indeed, if they abufe
Truth, curfed be they, and the craft they fe
To that intent! but yet let truth be free
To make her fallies upon thee and me,

Which way it pleafes God: for who knows how, Better than he that taught us firft to plow, To guide our minds and pens for his defign? And he makes bafe things ufher in divine.

3. I find that holy writ, in many places, Hath femblance with this method, where the cafes Do call for one thing to fet forth another; Ufe it I may then, and yet nothing fmother Truth's golden beams; nay, by this method may Make it caft forth its rays as light as day, And now, before I do put up my pen,

I'll fhew the profit of my book, and then
Commit both thee and it unto that hand

That pulls the ftrong down, und makes weak ones ftand.

This book it chalketh out before thine eyes
The man that feeks the everlasting prize :
It fbews you whence he comes, whither he goes:
What be leaves undone, alfo what he does:
It also fhews you how he runs, and runs
Till he unto the gate of glory comes.

It fhews too, who fet out for life amain,
As if the lafting crown they would obtain:
Here alfo you may fee the reason why
They left their labour, and like fools do dies
This book will make a traveller of thee,
If by its counfehthou wilt ruled he;.
It will direct thee to the Holy land,
If thou wilt its directions understand
Tea, it will make the flothful active be
The blind alfo delightful things to fee.

·Art thou for fomething rare and profitable? Wouldst thou fee a truth within a fable s Art thou forgetful? Wouldft thou remember From New year's Day to the laft of December?" Then read my fancies, they will stick like burs, And may be to the helpless comforters.

This book is writ in fuch a dialect, As may the minds of liftless men affect :It feems a novelty, and yet contains: Nothing but found and honeft gospel ftrains. Wouldst thou divert thyself from melancholy? Wouldst thou be pleasant, yet be far from folly? Wouldst thou read riddles, and their explanation? Or elle be drowned in thy contemplation?

Deft thou love picking meat? or wouldst thou fee A man i'th clouds, and hear him speak to thee? Would thou be in a dream, and yet not sleep? Or wouldst thou in a moment laugh and weep? Or wouldst thou lofe thyself, and catch no harm? And find thyself again without a charm? Wouldst read thyself, and read thou know'st not what,

And yet know whether thou art bleft or not, By reading the fame lines? Q-then come hither, And lay my book, thy head and heart together.

JOHN BUNYA N.

THE