A SMALL POET

Is one that would fain make himself that which Nature never meant him, like a fanatic that inspires himself with his own whimsies.  He sets up haberdasher of small poetry, with a very small stock and no credit.  He believes it is invention enough to find out other men’s wit, and whatsoever he lights upon, either in books or company, he makes bold with as his own.  This he puts together so untowardly, that you may perceive his own wit has the rickets by the swelling disproportion of the joints.  Imitation is the whole sum of him, and his vein is but an itch that he has catched of others, and his flame like that of charcoals that were burnt before.  But as he wants judgment to understand what is best, he naturally takes the worst, as being most agreeable to his own talent.  You may know his wit not to be natural, ’tis so unquiet and troublesome in him; for as those that have money but seldom are always shaking their pockets when they have it, so does he when he thinks he has got something that will make him appear.  He is a perpetual talker, and you may know by the freedom of his discourse that he came lightly by it, as thieves spend freely what they get.  He measures other men’s wit by their modesty, and his own by his confidence.  He makes nothing of writing plays, because he has not wit enough to understand the difficulty.  This makes him venture to talk and scribble, as chouses do to play with cunning gamesters until they are cheated and laughed at.  He is always talking of wit, as those that have bad voices are always singing out of tune, and those that cannot play delight to fumble on instruments.  He grows the unwiser by other men’s harms, for the worse others write, he finds the more encouragement to do so too.  His greediness of praise is so eager that he swallows anything that comes in the likeness of it, how notorious and palpable soever, and is as shot-free against anything that may lessen his good opinion of himself.  This renders him incurable, like diseases that grow insensible.

If you dislike him, it is at your own peril; he is sure to put in a caveat beforehand against your understanding, and, like a malefactor in wit, is always furnished with exceptions against his judges.  This puts him upon perpetual apologies, excuses, and defences, but still by way of defiance, in a kind of whiffling strain, without regard of any man that stands in the way of his pageant.  Where he thinks he may do it safely, he will confidently own other men’s writings; and where he fears the truth may be discovered, he will, by feeble denials and feigned insinuations, give men occasion to suppose it.