This is truer for Shakespeare than for Mr. Browning, who has often addressed his public with comparative directness, and would be grieved to have it thought that in the long course of his writings he has never spoken from his heart.  He would also be the first to admit that, in the course of his writings, the poet must, indirectly, reveal the man.  But he has too often had to defend himself against the impression that whatever he wrote as a poet must directly reflect him as a man.  He has too often had to repeat, that poetry is an art which “makes” not one which merely records; and that the feelings it conveys are no more necessarily supplied by direct experience than are its facts by the Cyclopaedia.  And with the usual deduction for the dramatic mood, we may accept the retort as genuine.

I have departed in the case of this poem from the mere statement of contents, which is all that my plan admits of, or my readers usually can desire:  because it expresses an indifference to general sympathy which belies the author’s feeling in the matter.  Mr. Browning speaks equally for himself and Shakespeare, when he derides another idea which he considers to be popular:  that the fit condition of the poet is melancholy.  “I,” he declares, “have found life joyous, and I speak of it as such.  Let those do otherwise who have wasted its opportunities, or been less richly endowed with them.”

The “Epilogue” is a criticism on critics, and is spoken distinctly by Mr. Browning himself.  He takes for his text a line from Mrs. Browning:[67]

       “The poets pour us wine,”

and denounces those consumers of the wine of poetry, who expect it to combine strength and sweetness in an impossible degree.  Body and bouquet, he affirms, may be found on the label of a bottle, but not in the vat from which the bottle was filled.  “Mighty” and “mellow” may be born at once; but the one is for now, the other only for after-time.  The earth, he declares, is his vineyard; his grape, the loves, the hates, and the thoughts of man; his wine, what these have made it.  Bouquet may, he admits, be artificially given.  Flowers grow everywhere which will supplement the flavour of the grape; and his life holds flowers of memory, which blossom with every spring.  But he denies that his brew would be the more popular if he stripped his meadow to make it so.  How much do his public drink of that which they profess to approve?  They declare Shakespeare and Milton fit beverage for man and boy.  “Look into their cellars, and see how many barrels are unbroached of the one brand, what drippings content them of the other.  He will be true to his task, and to Him who set it.”

“Wine, pulse in might from me! 
It may never emerge in must from vat,
Never fill cask nor furnish can,
Never end sweet, which strong began—­
God’s gift to gladden the heart of man;
But spirit’s at proof, I promise that! 
No sparing of juice spoils what should be
Fit brewage—­mine for me.”
(vol. xiv. p. 148)