"'Tis not a Flash of Fancy which sometimes / Dasling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rimes; / Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done; / True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun; / Which though sometimes beneath a cloud retir'd, / Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd."
— Sheffield, John, first duke of Buckingham and Normanby (1647-1721)
Work Title
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for Joseph Hindmarsh [etc.]
Date
1682
Metaphor
"'Tis not a Flash of Fancy which sometimes / Dasling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rimes; / Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done; / True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun; / Which though sometimes beneath a cloud retir'd, / Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd."
Metaphor in Context
Of Things in which Mankind does most excell,
Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well;
And of all sorts of Writing none there are
That can the least with Poetry compare;
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And if well done, there's nothing shines so much;
But Heav'n forbid we should be so prophane,
To grace the vulgar with that sacred name;
'Tis not a Flash of Fancy which sometimes
Dasling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;
Which though sometimes beneath a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number, and Rime, and that harmonious sound,
Which never does the Ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar Arts,
For all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul;
A Spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of Nature moves this World about;
A heat that glows in every word that's writ,
That's something of Divine, and more than Wit;
It self unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all men, but describ'd by none;
Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the Brain
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain?
When I at idle hours in vain thy absence mourn,
O where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away
From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?
Ev'n now too far transported I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needfull rein;
As all is dullness, when the Fancy's bad,
So without Judgment, Fancy is but mad;
And Judgment has a boundless influence;
Not upon words alone, or only sence,
But on the world, of manners, and of men,
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;
Reason is that substantial useful part,
Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.
Nature's chief Master-piece is writing well;
And of all sorts of Writing none there are
That can the least with Poetry compare;
No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And if well done, there's nothing shines so much;
But Heav'n forbid we should be so prophane,
To grace the vulgar with that sacred name;
'Tis not a Flash of Fancy which sometimes
Dasling our Minds, sets off the slightest Rimes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done;
True Wit is everlasting, like the Sun;
Which though sometimes beneath a cloud retir'd,
Breaks out again, and is by all admir'd.
Number, and Rime, and that harmonious sound,
Which never does the Ear with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar Arts,
For all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole
Without a Genius too, for that's the Soul;
A Spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of Nature moves this World about;
A heat that glows in every word that's writ,
That's something of Divine, and more than Wit;
It self unseen, yet all things by it shown,
Describing all men, but describ'd by none;
Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the Brain
Can such a vast and mighty thing contain?
When I at idle hours in vain thy absence mourn,
O where dost thou retire? and why dost thou return,
Sometimes with powerful charms to hurry me away
From pleasures of the night, and business of the day?
Ev'n now too far transported I am fain
To check thy course, and use the needfull rein;
As all is dullness, when the Fancy's bad,
So without Judgment, Fancy is but mad;
And Judgment has a boundless influence;
Not upon words alone, or only sence,
But on the world, of manners, and of men,
Fancy is but the Feather of the Pen;
Reason is that substantial useful part,
Which gains the Head, while t'other wins the Heart.
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
01/18/2006
