nd grow tiresome the next.

That which they call Wit, is sometimes a new Simile, sometimes a fine
Allusion: Here 'tis the Abuse of a Word which presents itself in one
Sense, and is understood in another; there a delicate Relation between
two uncommon Ideas: 'Tis an extraordinary Metaphor; 'tis something
which in an Object does not at first present itself, but nevertheless
is in it; 'tis the Art, to unite two Things which were far from one
another; to separate two which seem to be joined, or to set them in
Opposition; 'tis the Art, of expressing but half the Thought and
leaving the other to be found out. In short, I'd tell all the
different Ways of shewing Wit, if I knew of any more.

But all these Brightnesses (and I speak not of the false ones) agree
not, or very seldom agree with a serious Work, which ought to be
interesting. The Reason of it is, that 'tis then the Author that
appears, and the Publick will see no body but the Hero. Moreover the
Hero is always either in a Passion, or in Danger. Danger, and the
Passions seek not Expressions of Wit. _Priam_ and _Hecuba_ don't make
Epigrams, when their Children's Throats are cut and _Troy_ in
Flames:--_Dido_ does not sigh in Madrigals, when she flies to the Pile
upon which she's going to sacrifice herself:--_Demosthenes_ has no
Prettinesses, when he animates the _Athenians_ to War; if he had, he'd
be a Rhetorician indeed, instead of which he's a Statesman.

If _Pyrrhus_ was always to express himself in this Stile:

_'Tis true,
My Sword has often reek'd in_ Phrygian _Blood,
And carried Havock through your Royal Kindred:
But you, fair Princess, amply have aveng'd
Old_ Priam's _vanquish'd House: And all the Woes,
I brought on them, fall short of what I suffer._

This Character wou'd not touch at all: 'Twou'd soon be perceiv'd, that
true Passion seldom makes Use of such Comparisons, and that there is
very little Proportion between the real Fires which consumed _Troy_,
and the amorous Fires of _Pyrrhus_; between the Havock he made amongst
_Andromache_'s Kindred and the Cruelty she shews him.

_Chamont_ says, in speaking of _Monimia_:

_You took her up a little tender Flower,
Just sprouted on a Bank, which the next Frost
Had nipt; and, with a careful loving Hand,
Transplanted her into your own fair Garden,
Where the Sun always shines: There long she flourish'd,
Grew sweet to Sense, and lovely to the Eye;
Till at the last