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I was there when the gates were broken ope, And saw how Mansoul then was stripp'd of hope ; I saw the captains march into the town, How there they fought, and did their foes cut down.
I heard the Prince bid Boanerges go
I saw Emmanuel, when he possess'd
When the Diabolonians were caught,
I also saw Mansoul clad all in white,
What shall I say? I heard the people's cries,
Mansoul, the desire of both princes was :
The town is mine!”
Mansoul ! her wars seem'd endless in her eyes : She's lost by one, becomes another's prize ; And he again that lost her last would swear, “ Have her I will, or her in pieces tear.”
Mansoul! it was the very seat of war ; Wherefore her troubles greater were by far Than only where the noise of war is heard, Or where the shaking of a sword is feard ; Or only where small skirmishes are fought, Or where the fancy fighteth with the thought.
She saw the swords of fighting men made red, And heard the cries of those with them wounded Must not her frights, then, be much more by far Than theirs that to such doings strangers are ? Or theirs that hear the beating of a drum, But not made fly for fear from house and home!
Mansoul not only heard the trumpet's sound, But saw her gallants gasping on the ground: Wherefore we must not think that she could rest With them, whose greatest earnest is but jest: Or where the blust'ring threat'ning of great wars Do end in parleys, or in wording jars.
Mansoul! her mighty wars, they did portend Her weal or woe, and that world without end : Wherefore she must be more concern'd than they Whose fears begin and end the selfsame day; Or where none other harm doth come to him That is engaged, but loss of life or limb, As all must needs confess that now do dwell In Universe, and can this story tell.
Count me not, then, with them that, to amaze The people, set them on the stars to gaze,
Insinuating with much confidence,
But I have too long held thee in the porch,
Nor do thou go to work without my key ;
SOME say the “ Pilgrim's Progress” is not mine, Insinuating as if I would shine In name and fame by the worth of another, Like some made rich by robbing of their brother. Or that so fond I am of being sire, I'll father bastards; or, if need require, I'll tell a lie in print to get applause. I scorn it: John such dirt-heap never was, Since God converted him. Let this suffice To shew why I my “ Pilgrim” patronise.
It came from mine own heart, so to my head,
Manner and matter, too, was all mine own;
Also for this, tnine eye is now upon,
But the same heart, and head, fingers, and pen,
I write not this of any ostentation,