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THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE: EPILOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: With the discharge of passions much oppressed
Last Line: But show so much to think he meant none here.


WITH the discharge of passions much oppressed,
Disturbed in brain, and pensive in his breast,
Full of those thoughts which make the unhappy sad,
And by imagination half grown mad,
The poet led abroad his mourning muse,
And let her range, to see what sport she'd choose.
Straight, like a bird got loose, and on the wing,
Pleased with her freedom she began to sing;
Each note was echoed all the vale along,
And this was what she uttered in her song:—
Wretch, write no more for an uncertain fame,
Nor call thy muse, when thou art dull, to blame:
Consider with thyself how thou'rt unfit
To make that monster of mankind, a wit:
A wit's a toad, who, swelled with silly pride,
Full of himself, scorns all the world beside;
Civil would seem, though he good manners lacks,
Smiles on all faces, rails behind all backs.
If e'er good-natured, nought to ridicule,
Good-nature melts a wit into a fool:
Placed high like some jack-pudding in a hall,
At Christmas revels, he makes sport for all.
So much in little praises he delights,
But when he's angry, draws his pen, and writes.
A wit to no man will his dues allow;
Wits will not part with a good word that's due:
So whoe'er ventures on the ragged coast
Of starving poets, certainly is lost;
They rail like porters at the penny-post.
At a new author's play see one but sit,
Making his snarling froward face of wit,
The merit he allows, and praise he grants,
Comes like a tax from a poor wretch that wants.
O poets, have a care of one another,
There's hardly one amongst ye true to t'other:
Like Trinculos and Stephanos, ye play
The lewdest tricks each other to betray.
Like foes detract, yet flattering, friend-like smile,
And all is one another to beguile
Of praise, the monster of your barren isle.
Enjoy the prostitute ye so admire,
Enjoy her to the full of your desire;
Whilst this poor scribbler wishes to retire,
Where he may ne'er repeat his follies more,
But curse the fate that wrecked him on your shore.

Now you, who this day as his judges sit,
After you've heard what he has said of wit,
Ought for your own sakes not to be severe,
But show so much to think he meant none here.





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