Page:Gondibert, an heroick poem - William Davenant (1651).djvu/30

 Wit is not onely the luck and labour, but also the dexteritie of thought, rounding the world, like the Sun, with unimaginable motion; and bringing swiftly home to the memorie, universal surveys. It is the Souls Powder, which when supprest (as forbidden from flying upward) blows up the restraint, and loseth all force in a farther ascension towards Heaven (the region of God) and yet by nature is much less able to make any inquisition downward towards Hell, the Cel of the Devil; but breaks through all about it (as far as the utmost it can reach) removes, uncovers, makes way for Light, where Darkness was inclos'd, till great bodies are more examinable by being scatter'd into parcels; and till all that find its strength (but most of mankind are strangers to Wit, as Indians are to Powder) worship it for the effects, as deriv'd from the Deitie It is in Divines, Humilitie, Exemplariness and Moderation; in States-men, Gravitie, Vigilance, Benign Complacencie, Secrecie, Patience and Dispatch; in Leaders of Armies, Valor, Painfulness, Temperance, Bountie, Dexteritie in Punishing and Rewarding, and a sacred Certitude of Promise: It is in Poets, a full comprehension of all recited in all these; and an abilitie to bring those comprehensions into action, when they shall so far forget the true measure of what is of greatest consequence to humanitie, (which are things righteous, pleasant and usefull) as to think the delights of Greatness equal to that of Poesie; or the Chiefs of any Profession more necessary to the world, than excellent Poets. Lastly, though Wit be not the envie of ignorant Men, 'tis often of evil States-men, and of all such imperfect great spirits, as have it in a less degree than Poets: for though no man envies the excellencie of that, which in no proportion he ever tasted, (as men cannot be said to envie the condition of Angels) yet we may say the Devil envies the Supremacie of God, because he was in some degree partaker of his glory.

That which is not, yet is accounted, Wit, I will but sleightly remember; which seems very incident to imperfect