Classic Poem

Since the Sons of the Muses, grow num'rous and lowd
For th' appeasing soe Clam'rous, and Factious a Crowd;
Apollo, thought fit, in soe weighty a Cause,
T' Establish a Government, Leader, and Laws:
The hopes of the Bayes, at this Summoning Call,
Had drawne 'em together, the Devill and all;
All thronging and listning, they gap'd for the Blessing,
Noe Presbyter Sermon, had more Crowding and pressing.
In the head of the Gang, John Dryden, appear'd,
That Antient grave Witt, soe long lov'd and fear'd;
But Apollo, had heard a Story i'th' Town,
Of his quitting the Muses, to weare the black Gowne;
And soe gave him leave, now his Poetry's done,
To let him turne Priest, when Reeves is turn'd Nun.
This Reverend Author, was noe sooner set by,
But Apollo had got gentle George, in his Eye;
And franckly confest, of all Men that writ,
There's none had more fancy, Sense, Judgment and Witt:
But ith' Crying-Sin idlenesse, he was soe hardne'd
That his long Seav'n yeares silence, was not to be Pardon'd.
Brawney Witcherley was the next Man shewd his Face,
But Apollo, e'ene thought him too good for the Place;
Noe Gentleman-Writer, that Office shou'd beare,
'Twas a Trader in Witt, the Lawrell shou'd weare,
As none but a Citt, er'e makes a Lord Major.
Next into the Crowd, Tom Shadwell, does wallow,
And sweares by his Gutts, his Paunch, and his Tallow,
'Tis he that alone, best pleases the Age,
Himself and his Wife, have supported the Stage.
Apollo well pleas'd with soe Bonny a Lad,
T'oblige him, he told him he shou'd be huge glad,
Had he Half soe much Witt, as he fancy'd he had.
How ever to please soe Joviall a Witt,
And to keepe him in humour, Apollo thought fit,
To bid him drinke on, and keepe his Old trick
Of Railing at Poets, and shewing his Prick.
Natt. Lee, stept in next, in hopes of a Prize,
Apollo remember'd he had hit once in Thrice;
By the Rubyes in's Face, he cou'd not deny,
He had as much Witt, as Wine cou'd supply;
Confest that indeed, he had a Musicall Note,
But sometimes strain'd soe hard, that he rattled i'th' Throat.
Yet owning he had Sense, t'encourage him for't,
He made him his Ovid, in Augustus's Court.
Poet Settle, his Tryall, was the next came about,
He brought him an Ibrahim, with the Preface, torne out;
And humbly desir'd he might give noe offence.
God Damme, cryes Shadwell, he cannot write Sense.
And Ballocks, cry'd Newport, I hate that dull Rogue.
Apollo, consid'ring he was not in Vogue,
Wou'd not trust his deare Bayes, with soe modest a Foole,
And bid the great Boy, shou'd be sent back to Schoole.
Tom Otway, came next, Tom Shadwells, deare Zany;
And sweares for Heroicks, he writes best of any:
Don Carlos, his Pockets, soe Amply had fill'd,
That his Mange, was quite cur'd, and his Lice were all kill'd.
But Apollo, had seene his face on the Stage,
And prudently did not thinke fit to engage,
The Scumm of a Play-House, for the prop of an Age.
In the Numerous Herd, that encompast him round,
Little Starcht-Johnny Crowne, at his Elbow he found;
His Crevat-string new Iron'd, he gently did stretch
His Lilly white hand out, the Lawrell to reach;
Aledging that he had most right to the Bayes,
For writeing Romances, and shiteing of Plays.
Apollo rose up, and gravely confest,
Of all Men that writ, his Tallent was best;
For since paine and dishonour, Mans life only Damn,
The greatest Felicity, Mankind can claime,
Is to want sense of smart, and be past Sense of Shame:
And to perfect his Blisse, in Poeticall Rapture,
He bid him be dull, to the end of the Chapter.
The Poetesse Afra, next shew'd her sweete face,
And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace;
The Lawrell, by a double right was her owne,
For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests she had won.
Apollo acknowledg'd, 'twas hard to deny her,
But to deale franckly, and Ingeniously by her,
He told her, were Conquests, and Charmes her pretence,
She ought to have pleaded a Douzen yeares since.
At last Mamamouchi came in for a Share,
And little Tom Essences, Author was there.
Nor cou'd Durfey forbeare for the Lawrell to stickle,
Protesting he had had, the honour to tickle,
The Eares of the Town, with his Deare Madam Fickle.
With other pretenders, whose Names I'd rehearse,
But that they're too long, to stand in my Verse.
Apollo, quite tyr'd with their tedious Harrangue,
Finds at last, Tom Bettertons, face in the gang,
And since Poets, without the kind Players, may hang;
By his owne sacred Light, he solemnly swore,
That in search of a Lawreat, he'd looke out noe more.
A generall Murmur, ran quite through the Hall,
To thinke that the Bays to an Actor shou'd fall:
But Apollo, to quiet, and pacifye all,
E'en told 'em to put his desert to the Test,
That he had made Plays as well as the best;
And was the greatest wonder the Age, ever bore,
For of all the Play-Scriblers, that e're writ before,
His Witt had most worth, and most Modesty in't,
For he had writ Plays yet ne're came in Print.