XXIX.

Buckhurst and Sydley, with two or three more
Tranflators of Pompey, did put in their Claim ;
But Apollo made them be turn'd out of Door,
And bid them be gone like Fools as they came.

Old Waller heard this, and was sneaking away,
But fomebody spy'd him out of the Crowd;
Apollo, tho' h' had not seen him many a day,
Knew him full well, and call'd to him aloud;
XXXI.

My old Friend Mr. Waller, what make you there,
Among thofe young Fellows that spoil the French
Then beck'ning to him, whisper'd in his Ear, [Plays?
And gave him good Counsel instead of the Bays.

XXXII.

Then in came Denham, that limping old Bard,
Whofe Fame on the Sophy and Cooper's Hill stands;
And brought many Stationers who fwore very hard,
That nothing fold better except 'twere his Lands.
XXXIII.

But Apollo advis'd him to write fomething more,
To clear a Sufpicion which poffefs'd the Court,
That Cooper's Hill, fo much bragg'd on before,
Was writ by a Vicar, who had forty pound for't.
XXXIV.

Then Hudibras boldly demanded the Bays,
But Apollo bad him not be fo fierce;

And advis'd him to lay aside making his Plays,
Since he already began to write worfe and worse.

XXXV.

Tom Porter came into the Court in a huff,

Swearing, Damn him he had writ the best Plays: But Apollo it feems, knew his way well enough, And would not be hector'd out of his Bays. XXXVI.

Ellis in great difcontent went away,

Whilft D'Avenant against Apollo did rage; Because he declar'd the Secrets a Play

Fitting for none but a Mountebank's Stage.

XXXVII.

John Wilfon ftood up and wildly did ftare,
When on the fudden ftept in a bold Scot;
And offer'd Apollo he freely would fwear,
The faid Mafter Wilfon mought pass for a Sot.

XXXVIII.

But all was in vain; for Apollo, 'tis faid,
Would in no wife allow of any Scotch Wit;
Then Wilfon in fpight made his Plays to be read,
Swearing he'd anfwer for all he had writ.

XXXIX.

Clarges food up, and laid claim to the Bays,
But Apollo rebuk'd that arrogant Fool;
Swearing if e'er he tranflated more Plays,
He'd Crown him Sir-Reverence with a Clofe-ftool.
XL.

Damn'd Holden with's dull German Princess appear'd,
Whom if D'Avenant begot, as fome do fuppofe,
Apollo faid the Pillory fhould crop off his Ears,
And make them more futable unto his Nofe.

XLI.

Rhodes food and play'd at bo-peep in the Door;
But Apollo inftead of a Spanish Plot,

On condition the Varlet would never write more,
Gave him three Pence to pay for a Pipe and a Pot.

XLII.

Ethridge and Shadwell, and the Rabble appeal'd
To Apollo himself in a very great rage;
Because their beft Friends fo freely had deal'd,
As to tell'em their Plays were not fit for the Stage.

XLIII.

Then feeing a Crowd in a Tumult refort,

Well furnish'd with Verses, but loaded with Plays; It forc'd poor Apollo to adjourn the new Court, And left them together by the Ears for the Bays.

A SESSION of the POETS.

Ince the Sons of the Muses grew num'rous and loud,

For th' appeafing fo factious and clam'rous a Apollo thought fit, in fo weighty a Caufe, [Crowd, T'eftablish a Government, Leader, and Laws. The Hopes of the Bays, at this fummoning Call, Had drawn 'em together, the Devil and all; All thronging and lift'ning, they gap'd for the Bleffing, [fing. No Presbyter Sermon had more crowding and prefIn the Head of the Gang John Dryden appear'd, That ancient grave Wit, so long lov'd and fear'd; But Apollo had heard of a Story i' th' Town, Of his quitting the Muses, to wear a black Gown, And fo gave him leave, now his Poetry's done, To let him turn Prieft, now Reeves is turn'd Nun. This reverend Author was no fooner fet by, But Apollo had got gentle George in his Eye, And frankly confefs'd, of all Men that writ, [Wit; There's none had more Fancy, Senfe, Judgment, and But i' th' crying Sin, Idleness, he was so harden'd, That his long feven Years Silence was not to be pardon'd. [Face;

*

Brawny Wycherly was the next Man fhew'd his But Apollo e'en thought him too good for the Place. No Gentleman-writer that Office fhould bear, 'Twas a Trader in Wit the Lawrel fhould wear, As none but a Cit e'er makes a Lord-Mayor.

Next into the Crowd Tom Shadwel does wallow, And fwears by his Guts, his Paunch, and his Tallow, 'Tis he that alone beft pleafes the Age; Himself and his Wife have fupported the Stage. Apollo well pleas'd with so bonny a Lad, T'oblige him, he told him he should be huge glad, Had he half fo much Wit as he fancy'd he had.

Six George Etheridge.

}

How

However, to please fo jovial a Wit,

And to keep him in Humour, Apollo thought fit
To bid him drink on, and keep his old Trick
Of railing at Poets, and fhewing his---

Nat Lee ftept in next, in Hopes of a Prize, Apollo remember'd he had hit once in thrice; By the Rubies in's Face, he could not deny, But he had as much Wit as Wine could supply; Confefs'd that indeed he'd a mufical Note, [Throat; But fometimes ftrain'd fo hard, he rattled i'th' Yet owning he'd Senfe, t' encourage him for't, He made him his Ovid in Auguftus's Court.

Poet Settle his Tryal was the next came about, He brought him an Ibrahim with the Preface torn out, And humbly defir'd he might give no Offence; G-d D---me, cries Shadwel, he cannot write Sense; And Banks, cry'd up Newport, I hate that dull Rogue, Apollo confidering he was not in Vogue, Would not truft his dear Bays with fo modeft a Fool, And bid the great Boy should be fent back to School. Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany, And fwears for Heroicks he writes beft of any; Don Carlos his Pockets fo amply had fill'd, That his Mange was quite cur'd, and his Lice were all kill'd.

}

But Apollo had feen his Face on the Stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage
The Scum of a Play-house for the Prop of an Age.
In the numerous Herd that encompass'd him round,
Little ftarch'd Johnny Crown at his Elbow he found;
His Cravat-ftring iron'd, he gently did ftretch
His Lilly white Hand out, the Lawrel to reach;
Alledging that he had moft Right to the Bays,
For writing Romances, and fhiting of Plays,
Apollo rofe up, and gravely confest

Of all Men that writ, his Talent was beft;

For fince Pain and Dishonour Man's Life only
The greatest Felicity Mankind can claim, [damn,
Is, to want Senfe of Smart, and be paft Sense of
Shame;

And to perfect his Bliss in Poetical Rapture,
He bid him be dull to the End of the Chapter.
The Poetefst Afra next fhew'd her fweet Face,
And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace,
That the Lawrel by a double Right was her own,
For the Plays fhe had writ, and the Conquefts she'd
Apollo acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her; [won:
But yet, to deal frankly and ingenuously by her,
He told her, were Conquefts and Charms her Pretence,
She ought to have pleaded a dozen Years fince.
Anababalutha put in for a Share,

And little Tom Effence's Author was there:
Nor could D'Urfey forbear for the Lawrel to stickle,
Protefting he had had the Honour to Tickle
The Ears of the Town with his dear Madam Fickle;
With other Pretenders, whofe Names I'd rehearse,
But they are too long to ftand in my Verfe.
Apollo, quite tir'd with their tedious Harangue,
Finds at laft Tom Betterton's Face in the Gang,
And fince Poets with the kind Players may hang,
By his own Day-light he folemnly fwore,

} }

That in Search of a Laureat he'd look out no more.

A general Murmur ran quite thro' the Hall,

To think that the Bays to an A&tor fhould fall;

But Apollo, to quiet and pacifie all,

E'en told 'em, to put his Deferts to the Teft,
That he had made Plays as well as the best,
And was the great'ft Wonder the Age ever bore;
For of all the Play-fcribblers that e'er writ before,
His Wit had moft Worth and moft Modefty in't;
For he had writ Plays, yet ne'er came in Print,

† Mrs. Behn,