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 show why I my ‘Pilgrim’ patronise.

It came from mine own heart, so to my head,

And thence into my fingers trickled;

Then to my pen, from whence immediately

On paper I did dribble it daintily.

Manner and matter, too, was all mine own,

Nor was it unto any mortal known

Till I had done it, nor did any then

By books, by wits, by tongues, or hand, or pen,

Add five words to it, or wrote half a line

Thereof: the whole, and every whit, is mine.

Also for THIS, thine eye is now upon,

The matter in this manner came from none

But the same heart, and head, fingers, and pen,

As did the other. Witness all good men;

For none in all the world, without a lie,

Can say that this is mine, excepting I.

I write not this of my ostentation,

Nor ‘cause I seek of men their commendation;

I do it to keep them from such surmise,

As tempt them will my name to scandalise.

Witness my name, if anagram’d to thee,

The letters make-’Nu hony in a B.’

Chapter 1 | Index