Wit hates authority; commotion loves,
And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.
In states, ’tis dangerous; in religion, death:
Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, ’tis our helmet saves. 1260
Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
Wit, widow’d of good sense, is worse than nought;