Poesy therefore is an art of imitation, for so Aristotle termeth it in his word μίμησις (<u>mimesis</u>). That is to say, a representing, <u>counterfeiting</u>, or figuring forth — to speak <u>metaphorically</u>, a speaking picture — with this end, to teach and delight.


Now, of that which we call Poesy, there are two sorts: the chief, the first is that which doth imitate the <u>inconceivable</u> excellencies of God. Such were David in his Psalms; Solomon in his Song of Songs; and the authors of the Book of Job, with others. The second sort is that which is grounded on the works of nature, and which dealeth with matters philosophical: either moral, as Tyrtaeus; or natural, as Lucretius; or astronomical, as Manilius; or historical, as Lucan. But these are not true poets, for mere imitation is not poetry.


On the other side, the right poet doth not only show the way, but giveth so sweet a prospect into the way as will <u>entice</u> any man to enter into it. He doth not only begin the way, but giveth so powerful a motion that no man can stop him.


Poetry, therefore, is the companion of camps. What can be more moving than the trumpet's call? Yet poetry hath a more <u>lively</u> impression upon the minds of men. The philosopher with his learned definitions, the historian with his long examples, can never reach the same effect as the poet, who cometh to you with words set in delightful <u>proportion</u>.


The ending of all earthly learning being <u>virtuous</u> action — the poet is indeed the right popular philosopher. He <u>yieldeth</u> to the powers of the mind an image of that whereof the philosopher but thinketh. And whereas the philosopher laboreth to make the truth known by <u>abstract</u> reasoning, the poet by <u>concrete</u> example maketh the truth felt.