Classic Poem

Apollo , kindly looking down
On Wit's Decay in this dull Town ,
Its further Ruin to prevent,
Resolv'd on this Expedient .
To Him he call'd an Emissary ,
Whom he employ'd to fetch, and carry;
A lackquay Spirit , sent sometimes
To costive Bards to whisper Rhimes,
To ease desponding Sonneteer ,
Or twitch Lampooner by the Ear.

Fantome , said he, you've now a Task,
Which does no little Labour ask;
'Twill try your Skill, and Duty, more
Than all your Errands heretofore:
Know, I intend to make you Warden
Of all the Wits of Covent-Garden ,
And, by that means, to give new Birth
To Ingenuity on Earth.
Haste then, unto your Ward repair;
Assume some heavy Mortal's Air;
Let your pretended Business be
Retailing Coffee, Snuff , and Tea:
Tuck a blue Apron by your Side;
Pots, Cups, and Kettles strait provide,
With all your necessary Ware;
But leave their filling to my Care.
Your Water daily will I bring
From Helicon 's inspiring Spring;
Bards shall no sooner taste, but Sing .
From thence e'en Ideots shall grow wise,
And they who scarce cou'd Spell, shall rise
At once, to Write , and Criticise .
Dunces shall lay out Tragic Plots,
And Comedies be penn'd by Sots .
Songs, Madrigals , and all that Train
Of lesser Infants of the Brain,
Spontaneously from every Head
Shall spring, like Flies on Dunghills bred.
All who are Wits , or wou'd be so,
To taste your wond'rous Springs will go,
And I shall be rever'd below.
Let Button be your Earthly Name;
Button 's shall be Apollo 's Fane .