When at the first I took my pen in hand

 Thus for to write, I did not understand

 That I at all should make a little book

 In such a mode; nay, I had undertook

 To make another; which, when almost done,

 Before I was aware, I this begun.

And thus it was: I, writing of the way

 And race of saints, in this our gospel day,

 Fell suddenly into an allegory

 About their journey, and the way to glory,

 In more than twenty things which I set down.

 This done, I twenty more had in my crown;

 And they again began to multiply,

 Like sparks that from the coals of fire do fly.

Nay, then, thought I, if that you breed so fast,

 I'll put you by yourselves, lest you at last

 Should prove ad infinitum, and eat out

 The book that I already am about.

Well, so I did; but yet I did not think

 To shew to all the world my pen and ink

 In such a mode; I only thought to make

 I knew not what; nor did I undertake

 Thereby to please my neighbour: no, not I;

 I did it my own self to gratify.