To things, the mind’s right object, he it brought;
Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew. 70
He sought and gathered for our use the true;
And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay,
He pressed them wisely the mechanic way,
Till all their juice did in one vessel join,
Ferment into a nourishment divine, 75
The thirsty soul’s refreshing wine.
Who to the life an exact piece would make,
Must not from others’ work a copy take;