105:01,000[' ]| 105:01,001[A ]| Since the sons of the Muses grow numerous and loud, 105:01,002[A ]| For the appeasing so clamorous and factious a crowd, 105:01,003[A ]| Apollo thought fit in so weighty a cause 105:01,004[A ]| To establish a government, leader and laws. 105:01,005[A ]| The hopes of the bays, at this summoning call, 105:01,006[A ]| Had drawn 'em together, the Devil and all. 105:01,007[A ]| All thronging and listening, they gaped for the blessing; 105:01,008[A ]| No Presbyter sermon had more crowding and pressing. 105:01,009[A ]| In the head of the gang John Dryden appeared, 105:01,010[A ]| That ancient grave wit so long loved and feared,<10> 105:01,011[A ]| But Apollo had heard a story in the town 105:01,012[A ]| Of his quitting the Muses to wear the black gown, 105:01,013[A ]| And so gave him leave, now his poetry's done, 105:01,014[A ]| To let him turn priest, when Reeves is turned nun. 105:01,015[A ]| This reverend author was no sooner set by, 105:01,016[A ]| But Apollo had got gentle George in the eye, 105:01,017[A ]| And frankly confessed of all men that writ 105:01,018[A ]| There's none had more fancy, sense, judgment and wit. 105:01,019[A ]| But in the crying sin idleness he was so hardened 105:01,020[A ]| That his long seven years' silence was not to be pardoned.<20> 105:01,021[A ]| Brawny Wycherley was the next man showed his face, 105:01,022[A ]| But Apollo e'en thought him too good for the place. 105:01,023[A ]| No gentleman writer that office should bear: 105:01,024[A ]| 'Twas a trader in wit the laurel should wear, 105:01,025[A ]| As none but a cit e'er makes a Lord Mayor. 105:01,026[A ]| Next into the crowd Tom Shadwell does wallow 105:01,027[A ]| And swears by his guts, his paunch and his tallow 105:01,028[A ]| That 'tis he alone best pleases the age: 105:01,029[A ]| Himself and his wife have supported the stage. 105:01,030[A ]| Apollo, well pleased with so bonny a lad,<30> 105:01,031[A ]| To oblige him he told him he should be huge glad 105:01,032[A ]| Had he half so much wit as he fancied he had. 105:01,033[A ]| However, to please so jovial a wit, 105:01,034[A ]| And to keep him in humour, Apollo thought fit 105:01,035[A ]| To bid him drink on, and keep his old trick 105:01,036[A ]| Of railing at poets and showing his prick. 105:01,037[A ]| Nat Lee stepped in next in hopes of a prize; 105:01,038[A ]| Apollo remembered he had hit once in thrice. 105:01,039[A ]| By the rubies in his face he could not deny 105:01,040[A ]| He had as much wit as wine could supply,<40> 105:01,041[A ]| Confessed that indeed he'd a musical note, 105:01,042[A ]| But sometimes strained so hard that he rattled in the throat. 105:01,043[A ]| Yet owning he had sense, to encourage him for it, 105:01,044[A ]| He made him his Ovid in Augustus's court. 105:01,045[A ]| Poor Settle his trial was the next came about; 105:01,046[A ]| He brought him an Ibrahim with the preface torn out, 105:01,047[A ]| And humbly desired he might give no offence. 105:01,048[A ]| "Damn him!" cries Shadwell, "He cannot write sense." 105:01,049[A ]| And "Ballocks!" cries Newport, "I hate that dull rogue." 105:01,050[A ]| Apollo, considering he was not in vogue,<50> 105:01,051[A ]| Would not trust his dear bays with so modest a fool 105:01,052[A ]| And bid the great boy should be sent back to school. 105:01,053[A ]| Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear zany, 105:01,054[A ]| And swears for heroics he writes best of any. 105:01,055[A ]| Don Carlos his pockets so amply had filled, 105:01,056[A ]| That his mange was quite cured, and his lice were all killed. 105:01,057[A ]| But Apollo had seen his face on the stage, 105:01,058[A ]| And prudently did not think fit to engage 105:01,059[A ]| The scum of a playhouse for the prop of an age. 105:01,060[A ]| In the numerous herd that encompassed him round,<60> 105:01,061[A ]| Little starched Johnny Crowne at his elbow he found. 105:01,062[A ]| His cravat-string new ironed, he gently did stretch 105:01,063[A ]| His lily-white hand out the laurel to reach, 105:01,064[A ]| Alleging that he had most right to the bays, 105:01,065[A ]| For writing romances and shiting of plays. 105:01,066[A ]| Apollo rose up and gravely confessed, 105:01,067[A ]| Of all men that writ his talent was best: 105:01,068[A ]| For since pain and dishonour man's life only damn, 105:01,069[A ]| The greatest felicity mankind can claim 105:01,070[A ]| Is to want sense of smart and be past sense of shame,<70> 105:01,071[A ]| And to perfect his bliss in poetical rapture, 105:01,072[A ]| He bade him be dull to the end of the chapter. 105:01,073[A ]| The poetess Aphra next showed her sweet face 105:01,074[A ]| And swore by her poetry and her black ace 105:01,075[A ]| The laurel by a double right was her own 105:01,076[A ]| For the plays she had writ and the conquests she'd won. 105:01,077[A ]| Apollo acknowledged 'twas hard to deny her, 105:01,078[A ]| But to deal frankly and ingeniously by her 105:01,079[A ]| He told her, were conquests and charms her pretence, 105:01,080[A ]| She ought to have pleaded a dozen years since.<80> 105:01,081[A ]| At last Mamamouchi came in for a share, 105:01,082[A ]| And little Tom Essence's author was there, 105:01,083[A ]| Nor could Durfey forbear for the laurel to stickle, 105:01,084[A ]| Protesting he had had the honour to tickle 105:01,085[A ]| The ears of the town with his dear Madam Fickle, 105:01,086[A ]| With other pretenders whose names I'd rehearse, 105:01,087[A ]| But that they're too long to stand in my verse. 105:01,088[A ]| Apollo quite tired with their tedious harangue, 105:01,089[A ]| Finds at last Tom Betterton's face in the gang, 105:01,090[A ]| And since poets without the kind players may hang,<90> 105:01,091[A ]| By his own sacred light he solemnly swore 105:01,092[A ]| That in search of a laureate he'd look out no more. 105:01,093[A ]| A general murmur ran quite through the hall 105:01,094[A ]| To think that the bays to an actor should fall; 105:01,095[A ]| But Apollo, to quiet and pacify all, 105:01,096[A ]| E'en told 'em, to put his desert to the test, 105:01,097[A ]| That he had made plays as well as the best, 105:01,098[A ]| And was the greatest wonder the age ever bore, 105:01,099[A ]| For of all the play scribblers that e'er writ before, 105:01,100[A ]| His wit had most worth and most modesty in it,<100> 105:01,101[A ]| For he had writ plays, yet ne'er came in print.