--------------------He whose pen
Draws both corrupt and clear blood from all men
Careless what vein he pricks; let him not rave
When his own sides are struck; blows, blows do crave.
Such were the bitter apples which Jonson, still in his youth, plucked
from the tree of his broad satire, that branched over all ranks in
society. That even his intrepidity and hardiness felt the incessant
attacks he had raised about him, appears from the close of the
Apologetical Epilogueto "The Poetaster;" where, though he replies with
all the consciousness of genius, and all its haughtiness, he closes
with a determination to give over the composition of comedies! This,
however, like all the vows of a poet, was soon broken; and his
masterpieces were subsequently produced.
_Friend._ Will you not answer then the libels?
_Author._ No.
_Friend._ Nor the Untrussers.
_Author._ Neither.
_Friend._ You are undone, then.
_Author._ With whom?
_Friend._ The world.
_Author._ The bawd!
_Friend._ It will be taken to be stupidity or tameness in you.
_Author._ But they that have incensed me, can in soul
Acquit me of that guilt. They know I dare
To spurn or baffle them; or squirt their eyes
With ink or urine: or I could do worse,
Arm'd with Archilochus' fury, write iambicks,
Would make the desperate lashers hang themselves.--
His Friend tells him that he is accused that "all his writing is mere
railing;" which Jonson nobly compares to "the salt in the old comedy;"
that they say, that he is slow, and "scarce brings forth a play a
year."
_Author._ ------------'Tis true,
I would they could not say that I did that.