Or where the fancy fighteth with a thought. 
She saw the swords of fighting men made red,
And heard the cries of those with them wounded: 
Must not her frights, then, be much more by far
Than theirs that to such doings strangers are? 
Or theirs that hear the beating of a drum,
But not made fly for fear from house and home? 
Mansoul not only heard the trumpet’s sound,
But saw her gallants gasping on the ground: 
Wherefore we must not think that she could rest
With them, whose greatest earnest is but jest: 
Or where the blust’ring threat’ning of great wars
Do end in parlies, or in wording jars. 
Mansoul! her mighty wars, they did portend
Her weal or woe, and that world without end: 
Wherefore she must be more concern’d than they
Whose fears begin, and end the selfsame day;
Or where none other harm doth come to him
That is engaged, but loss of life or limb,
As all must needs confess that now do dwell
In Universe, and can this story tell. 
Count me not, then, with them that, to amaze
The people, set them on the stars to gaze,
Insinuating with much confidence,
That each of them is now the residence
Of some brave creatures:  yea, a world they will
Have in each star, though it be past their skill
To make it manifest to any man,
That reason hath, or tell his fingers can. 
But I have too long held thee in the porch,
And kept thee from the sunshine with a torch,
Well, now go forward, step within the door,
And there behold five hundred times much more
Of all sorts of such inward rarities
As please the mind will, and will feed the eyes
With those, which, if a Christian, thou wilt see
Not small, but things of greatest moment be. 
Nor do thou go to work without my key;
(In mysteries men soon do lose their way;)
And also turn it right, if thou wouldst know
My riddle, and wouldst with my heifer plough;
It lies there in the window.  Fare thee well,
My next may be to ring thy passing-bell.

John Bunyan.

AN ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.

Some say the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ is not mine,
Insinuating as if I would shine
In name and fame by the worth of another,
Like some made rich by robbing of their brother. 
Or that so fond I am of being sire,
I’ll father bastards; or, if need require,
I’ll tell a lie in print to get applause. 
I scorn it:  John such dirt-heap never was,
Since God converted him.  Let this suffice
To show why I my ‘Pilgrim’ patronize. 
It came from mine own heart, so to my head,
And thence into my fingers trickled;
Then to my pen, from whence immediately
On paper I did dribble it daintily. 
Manner and matter, too, was all mine own,
Nor was it unto any mortal known
Till I had done it; nor did any then
By books, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen,