Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A TALE OF THE MISER AND THE POET, by ANNE FINCH


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A TALE OF THE MISER AND THE POET, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A wit, transported with enditing
Last Line: And let the bank out-swell parnassus.'
Alternate Author Name(s): Kingsmill, Anne; Winchilsea, Countess Of
Subject(s): Misers


A WIT, transported with enditing,
Unpaid, unpraised, yet ever writing,
Who, for all fights and favourite friends,
Had poems at his fingers' ends;
For new events was still providing,
Yet now, desirous to be riding,
He packed up every ode and ditty,
And in vacation left the city.
So rapt with figures and allusions,
With secret passions, sweet confusions;
With sentences from plays well-known,
And thousand couplets of his own,
That ev'n the chalky road looked gay,
And seemed to him the Milky Way.
But Fortune, who the ball is tossing,
And poets ever will be crossing,
Misled the steed, which ill he guided,
Where several gloomy paths divided.
The steepest in descent he followed,
Enclosed by rocks which time had hollowed,
Till he believed, alive and booted,
He'd reached the shades by Homer quoted.
But all that he could there discover
Was, in a pit with thorns grown over,
Old Mammon digging, straining, sweating,
As bags of gold he thence was getting;
Who, when reproved for such dejections
By him who lived on high reflections,
Replied: 'Brave sir, your time is ended,
And poetry no more befriended.
I hid this coin when Charles was swaying,
When all was riot, masking, playing;
When witty beggars were in fashion,
And learning had o'errun the nation:
But since mankind is so much wiser,
And none is valued like the miser,
I draw it hence, and now these sums
In proper soil grow up to plums,
Which gathered once, in that rich minute,
We rule the world, and all that's in it.'

'But,' quoth the poet, 'can you raise,
As well as plum-trees, groves of bays?
Where you, which I would choose much rather,
May fruits of reputation gather?
Will men of quality and spirit
Regard you for intrinsic merit?
And seek you out, before your betters,
For conversation, wit, and letters?'

'Fool,' quoth the churl, who knew no breeding,
'Have these been times for such proceeding?
Instead of honoured and rewarded,
Are you not slighted or discarded?
What have you met with, but disgraces?
Your Prior could not keep in places,
And your Van-Brugh had found no quarter,
But for his dabbling in the mortar.
Rowe no advantages could hit on,
Till verse he left, to write North Briton.
Philips, who's by the Shilling known,
Ne'er saw a shilling of his own.
Meets Philomela, in the town,
Her due proportion of renown?
What preference has Ardelia seen,
T' expel, though she could write The Spleen?
Of coach or tables can you brag,
Or better clothes than poet Rag?
Do wealthy kindred, when they meet you,
With kindness or distinction greet you?
Or have your lately-flattered heroes
Enriched you like the Roman Maroes?'

'No,' quoth the man of broken slumbers;
'Yet we have patrons for our numbers:
There are Maecenas's among 'em.'

Quoth Mammon, 'Pray, sir, do not wrong 'em;
But in your censures use a conscience,
Nor charge great men with thriftless nonsense;
Since they, as your own poets sing,
Now grant no worth in anything
But so much money as 'twill bring.
Then, never more from your endeavours
Expect preferment, or less favours.
But if you'll 'scape contempt, or worse,
Be sure put money in your purse;
Money! which only can relieve you
When fame and friendship will deceive you.'

'Sir,' quoth the poet humbly bowing,
And all that he had said allowing,
'Behold me and my airy fancies
Subdued like giants in romances.
I here submit to your discourses,
Which, since experience too enforces,
I, in that solitary pit,
Your gold withdrawn, will hide my wit:
Till time, which hastily advances,
And gives to all new turns and chances,
Again may bring it into use;
Roscommons may again produce,
New Augustean days revive,
When wit shall please, and poets thrive.
Till when, let those converse in private,
Who taste what others don't arrive at;
Yielding that Mammonists surpass us,
And let the Bank out-swell Parnassus.'





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