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

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