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 patronize.
It came from mine own heart; so to my head,
And thence into my fingers tickeled;
Then to my pen, from whence immediately
I'díd dribble it daintily.
Manner and matter too were all mine own,
Nor was it unto any mortal known
Till I had done it. Nor did any then
My books, by wits, by tongues, or hand or pen
Add five words to it, or write half a line,
Therefore, 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 others. 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 any 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 scandalize;
Witness my name, if anagram'd to thee,
The letters make Nu hony in a B.