These Sports of the Imagination, these Finesses, these Conceits, these glittering Strokes, these Gaieties, these little cut Sentences, these ingenious Prodigalities, which are lavished away in our Times, agree with none but little Works.  The Front of St Paul’s Church is simple and majestick.  A Cabinet may with Propriety enough contain little Ornaments.  Have as much Wit as you will, or you can, in a Madrigal, in little light Verses, in the Scene of a Comedy, which is neither passionate or simple, in a Compliment, in a little Story, in a Letter where you would be merry yourself to make your Friends so.

Spencer was very well acquainted with this Art.  In his Fairy Queen, you find hardly any thing but what is sublime and full of Imagery:  but in his detached Pieces, such as the Hymn in Honour of Beauty, The Fate of the Butterfly, Britain’s Ida, &c. he gave a Loose to his Wit and Delicacy.  The following Verses are Part of the Description of Venus asleep, in the last mention’d Poem: 

Her full large Eyes, in jetty-black array’d, Proud Beauty not confin’d to red and white, But oft herself in black more rich display’d; Both Contraries did yet themselves unite, To make one Beauty in different Delight: A thousand Loves, sate playing in each Eye, And smiling Mirth kissing fair Courtesy, By sweet Persuasion won a bloodless Victory.

Her Lips most happy each in other’s Kisses, From their so wish’d Imbracements seldom parted, Yet seem’d to blush at such their wanton Blisses; But when sweet Words their joining Sweets disparted, To the Ear a dainty Musick they imparted; Upon them fitly sate delightful Smiling, A thousand Souls with pleasing Stealth beguiling:  Ah that such shews of Joys shou’d be all Joys exiling!

Lower two Breasts stand all their Beauties bearing, Two Breasts as smooth and soft;—­but oh alas!  Their smoothest Softness far exceeds comparing:  More smooth and soft—­but naught that ever was, Where they are first, deserves the second Place:  Yet each as soft, and each as smooth as other; But when thou first try’st one, and then the other, Each softer seems than each, and each than each seems smoother.

These Lines (pretty as they are) would be unsufferable in a large and serious Work, nay, there are some People who tax them with being too extravagant even for the Poem where they stand; and in truth, their warmest Admirer can say no more than this: 

     Nequeo Monstrare, & Sentio tantum.

So far am I from reproaching Waller with putting too much Wit in his Poems; that on the contrary, I have found too little, though he continually aims at it.  They say that Dancing Masters never make a handsome Bow, because they take too much Pains.  I think Waller is often in this Case; his best Verses are studied; one finds he quite tires himself to find that which presents itself so naturally to Rochester, Congreve, and to so many more, who with all the Ease in the World, write these Bagatelles better than Waller did with Labour.