Pilgrim's Progress, The The. John Bunyan

thought I, some, I see, would have it done,

       Though others in that channel do not run:

       To prove, then, who advised for the best,

       Thus I thought fit to put it to the test.

      I further thought, if now I did deny

       Those that would have it, thus to gratify.

       I did not know but hinder them I might

       Of that which would to them be great delight.

      For those which were not for its coming forth,

       I said to them, Offend you I am loath;

       Yet, since your brethren pleased with it be,

       Forbear to judge till you do further see.

      If that thou wilt not read, let it alone;

       Some love the meat, some love to pick the bone.

       Yea, that I might them better palliate,

       I did too with them thus expostulate:—

      May I not write in such a style as this?

       In such a method, too, and yet not miss

       My end—thy good? Why may it not be done?

       Dark clouds bring waters, when the bright bring none.

       Yea, dark or bright, if they their silver drops

       Cause to descend, the earth, by yielding crops,

       Gives praise to both, and carpeth not at either,

       But treasures up the fruit they yield together;

       Yea, so commixes both, that in her fruit

       None can distinguish this from that: they suit

       Her well when hungry; but, if she be full,

       She spews out both, and makes their blessings null.

      You see the ways the fisherman doth take

       To catch the fish; what engines doth he make?

       Behold how he engages all his wits;

       Also his snares, lines, angles, hooks, and nets;

       Yet fish there be, that neither hook, nor line,

       Nor snare, nor net, nor engine can make thine:

       They must be groped for, and be tickled too,

       Or they will not be caught, whate’er you do.

      How does the fowler seek to catch his game

       By divers means! all which one cannot name:

       His guns, his nets, his lime-twigs, light, and bell:

       He creeps, he goes, he stands; yea, who can tell

       Of all his postures? Yet there’s none of these

       Will make him master of what fowls he please.

       Yea, he must pipe and whistle to catch this,

       Yet, if he does so, that bird he will miss.

      If that a pearl may in a toad’s head dwell,

       And may be found too in an oyster-shell;

       If things that promise nothing do contain

       What better is than gold; who will disdain,

       That have an inkling of it, there to look,

       That they may find it? Now, my little book,

       (Though void of all these paintings that may make

       It with this or the other man to take)

       Is not without those things that do excel

       What do in brave but empty notions dwell.

      ‘Well, yet I am not fully satisfied,

       That this your book will stand, when soundly tried.’

       Why, what’s the matter? ‘It is dark.’ What though?

       ‘But it is feigned.’ What if that is so?

       Some men, by feigned words, as dark as mine,

       Make truth to spangle and its rays to shine.

      ‘But they want solidness.’ Speak, man, thy mind.

       ‘They drown the weak; metaphors make us blind.’

      Solidity, indeed, becomes the pen

       Of him that writes things divine to men;

       But must I needs want solidness, because

       By metaphors I speak? Were not God’s laws,

       His gospel laws, in olden times held forth

       By types, shadows, and metaphors? Yet loath

       Will any sober man be to find fault

       With them, lest he be found for to assault

       The highest wisdom. No, he rather stoops,

       And seeks to find out what by pins and loops,

       By calves and sheep, by heifers and by rams,

       By birds and herbs, and by the blood of lambs,

       God speaks to him; and happy is he

       That finds the light and grace that in them be.

      Be not too forward, therefore, to conclude

       That I want solidness—that I am rude;

       All things solid in show not solid be;

       All things in parables despise not we;

       Lest things most hurtful lightly we receive,

       And things that good are, of our souls bereave.

      My dark and cloudy words, they do but hold

       The truth, as cabinets enclose the gold.

      The prophets used much by metaphors

       To set forth truth; yea, who so considers Christ,

       his apostles too, shall plainly see,

       That truths to this day in such mantles be.

      Am I afraid to say, that holy writ,

       Which for its style and phrase puts down all wit,

       Is everywhere so full of all these things—

       Dark figures, allegories? Yet there springs

       From that same book that lustre, and those rays

       Of light, that turn our darkest nights to days.

      Come, let my carper to his life now look,

       And find there darker lines than in my book

       He finds any; yea, and let him know,

       That in his best things there are worse lines too.

      May we but stand before impartial men,

       To his poor one I dare adventure ten,

       That they will take my meaning in these lines

       Far better than his lies in silver shrines.

       Come, truth, although in swaddling clouts, I find,

       Informs the judgment, rectifies the mind;

       Pleases the understanding, makes the will

       Submit; the memory too it doth fill

       With what doth our imaginations please;

       Likewise it tends our troubles to appease.

      Sound words, I know, Timothy is to use,

       And old wives’ fables he is to refuse;

       But yet grave Paul him nowhere did forbid

       The use of parables; in which lay hid

       That gold, those pearls, and precious stones that were

       Worth digging for, and that with greatest