Aut monologue (Act 4) — The Poetaster

The fates have not spun him the coarsest thread, That (free from knots of perturbation) Doth yet so live, although but to himself, As he can safely scorn the tongues of slaves, And neglect fortune, more than she can him. It is the happiest thing this, not to be Within the reach of malice; it provides A man so well, to laugh off injuries; And never sends him farther for his vengeance, Than the vex'd bosom of his enemy. I, now, but think how poor their spite sets off, Who, after all their waste of sulphurous terms, And burst-out thunder of their charged mouths, Have nothing left but the unsavoury smoke Of their black vomit, to upbraid themselves: Whilst I, at whom they shot, sit here shot-free, And as unhurt of envy, as unhit. [Pol. and Nas. discover themselves. Pol. Ay, but the multitude they think not so, sir, They think you hit, and hurt: and dare give out, Your silence argues it in not rejoining To this or that late libel.