Search not to find things too deeply hid; Nor try to know things whose knowledge is forbid.

But whither am I strayed? I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built; Nor needs thy juster title the foul guilt Of Eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain.

Books should to one of these fours ends conduce, for wisdom, piety, delight, or use.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold; His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.

Sure there are poets which did never dream Upon Parnassus, nor did taste the stream Of Helicon; we therefore may suppose Those made not poets, but the poets those.

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.