The Pilgrim's Progress, Part 1

THE AUTHOR'S Apology For his BOOK.

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 your selves, lest you at last

Should prove ad infinitum, and eat out

The Book that I already am about.

Well, so I did; but yet I did not think

To shew 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 Neighbour; no not I;

I did it mine own self to gratifie;

Neither did I but vacant seasons spend

In this my Scribble; nor did I intend

But to divert my self 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 penn'd

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 shew'd them others, that I might see whether

They would condemn them, or them justifie:

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 straight, and d d not see

Which was the best thing to be done by me:

At last I thought, Since you 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 〈…〉 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 gratifie,

I did not know but hinder them I might

Of that which would to them be great delight.

For those that were not for its coming forth,

I said to them, Offend you I am loth;

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 stile as this?

In such a method too, and yet not miss

Mine 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 spues out both, and makes their blessings null.

You see the ways the Fisher-man doth take

To catch the Fish; what Engins doth he make?

Behold how he ingageth 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 Engin can make thine;

They must be grop't for, and be tickled too,

Or they will not be catcht, what e're you do.

How doth the Fowler seek to catch his Game,

By divers means, all which one cannot name?

His Gun, his Nets, his Lime-twi◊s, light, and belle

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 Toads-head dwell,

And may be found too in an Oister-shell;

If things that promise nothing, do contain

What better is then Gold; who will disdain,

(That have an inkling of it,) there to look,

That they may find it. Now my little Book,

(Tho void of all those 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 try'd

Why, what's the matter! it is dark what tho?

But it is feigned. What of that I tro?

Some men by feigning words as dark as mine,

Make truth to spangle, and its rayes to shine.

But they want solidness: Speak man thy mind,

They drown'd the weak; Metaphors make us blind.

Solidity, indeed becomes the Pen

Of him that writeth things Divine to men:

But must I needs want solidness, because

By Metaphors I speak; Was not Gods Laws,

His Gospel-Laws, in oldertime held forth

By Types, Shaddows and Metaphors? Yet loth

Will any sober man below 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 R◊ms;