Here you will find the Long Poem Author's Apology For His Book of poet John Bunyan
WHEN at the first I took my pen in hand Thus for to write, I did not understand That I at all should make a little book In such a mode: nay, I had undertook To make another; which, when almost done, Before I was aware I this begun. And thus it was: I, writing of the way And race of saints in this our gospel-day, Fell suddenly into an allegory About their journey, and the way to glory, In more than twenty things which I set down This done, I twenty more had in my crown, And they again began to multiply, Like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly. Nay, then, thought I, if that you breed so fast, I'll put you by yourselves, lest you at last Should prove ad infinitum, I and eat out The book that I already am about. Well, so I did; but yet I did not think To show to all the world my pen and ink In such a mode; I only thought to make I knew not what: nor did I undertake Thereby to please my neighbor; no, not I; I did it my own self to gratify. Neither did I but vacant seasons spend In this my scribble; nor did I intend But to divert myself, in doing this, From worser thoughts, which make me do amiss. Thus I set pen to paper with delight, And quickly had my thoughts in black and white; For having now my method by the end, Still as I pull'd, it came; and so I penned It down; until it came at last to be, For length and breadth, the bigness which you see. Well, when I had thus put mine ends together I show'd them others, that I might see whether They would condemn them, or them justify: And some said, let them live; some, let them die: Some said, John, print it; others said, Not so: Some said, It might do good; others said, No. Now was I in a strait, and did not see Which was the best thing to be done by me: At last I thought, Since ye are thus divided, I print it will; and so the case decided. For, 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 their 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 blessing null. You see the ways the fisherman doth take To catch the fish; what engines doth he make! Behold how he engageth 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 catch'd, 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 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 to 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 of that? I trow Some men by feigned words, as dark as mine, Make truth to spangle, and its rays to shine.