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Apollo thought fit, in so weighty a Cause,
T' Establish a Government, Leader, and Laws.
The Hopes of the Bays, at the fammoning Call,
Had drawn them togetber, the Devil and All;
All thronging and listning, they gap'd for the

Blessing:
No Presbyter Sermon bad more crowding and

prefsing: In the head of the Gang, John Dryden appear’d, ThatAncient Grave Wit so long lov'd and fear'd, But Apollo had heard a Story ith' Town, Of bis quitting the Mufes, to wear the black

Gown; And so gave bim leave now his Poetry's done, To let him turn Priest fince R-is turn'd Nun. This Reverend Author was no sooner set by, But Apollo had got gentle George in his Eye. And frankly confest, of all Men that writ, There's none had more Fancy, Sense, Judgment,

and Wit: But in th'crying Sin, Idleness, he was so bardn'd That his long Seven Years Silence, was not to

be pardon'd. -Way was the next Man shew'd his Face, But Apollo e’en thought bim too good for the

place;

No Gentleman Writer that Office should bear,
But a Trader in Wit the Lawrel should wear,
As none but a Cit -- e'er makes a Lord Mayor.
Next into the Crowd, Tom Shadwell does wal.

low, And swears by his Guts, bis Paunch, and his Tallow,

Tbat

That'tis be alone belt pleases the Age,
Himself, and his Wife, have supported the Stage:
Apollo well pleas’d with só bonny a Lad,
T' oblige bim, he told him, he should be huge

glad,
Had he Half fo much Wit, as he fanlı'd he bad.
Nat. Lee stept 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,
Confest that indeed he had a Mufical Note,
But sometimes Itrain'd fo hard that he rattled

ith' Throat; Yet owning he had Sense, t'encourage him för't, He made him his Ovid in Augustus's Court. Poet Settle, his Tryal was the next came about, He brought him an Ibrahim with the Preface

torn out, And humbly desir'd he might give no offence : Dam bim, cries Shadwell, he cannot write Sense: And B--ll-cks, cry'd Newport, I hate that dull

Rogue; Apollo considering he was not in Vogue, Would not trust his dear Bays with fo model

a Fool And bid the great Boy should be fent back to

School. Tom Otway came next, Tom Shadwell's dear Zany, And swears, for Heroicks, he writes best of any; Don Carlos bis Pockets fo amply had filld, That his Mange was quite cur'd, and his Licę were all kill'd;

Ana

Anababaluthu put in for a share,
And little Tom Essences Author was there:
But Apollo had seen his Face on the Stage,
And prudently did not think fit to engage,
TheScumof a Play-house,for the Propof anAge,
In the numerous Crowd that incompass’d him

round, Little Starch'd Johnny, Co.-- at his Elbow he

found, His Crevat-string new Iron'd, he gently did

stretch His lilly white Hand out, the Lawrel to reach, Alledging that he had most right to the Bays, For writing Romances, and fh -ting of Plays; Apollo rose up, and gravely contest, Of all Men that writ, his Talent was best; For fince Pain and Dishonour Mans Life only

dam, The greatest Felicity Mankind can claim, Is to want Sense of Smart, and to be past Serise

of Shame And to perfect his Bliss in Poetical Rapture, He bid him be dull to the end of the Chapter. The Poetess Afra, next shew'd her sweet Face, And swore by her Poetry, and her black Ace. The Lawrel by a double Right was her own, For the Plays she had writ, and the Conquests

she had Won. Apollo acknowledgʻd 'twas hard to deny ber, Yet to deal frankly and ingenuoufly by ber, He told her were Conquests, and charms her

Pretence, She ought to have pleaded a Dozen Years since.

Nor

Nor could Durfy forbear for the Lawrel to

stickle, Protesting that he had the honour to tickle Th’Ears of the Town, with his dear Madam

Fickle. With other Pretenders, whose Names I'd res

hearse, But that they're too long to stand in my Verse: Apollo quite tir'd with their tedious Harangue, At last found TomBetterton's Face in the Gang; For fince Poets without the kind Players may

Hang, By bis one sacred light be folemnly swore, That in search of a Lawreat, he'd look out no

more.

A general Murmur ran quite thro' the Hall,
To think that the Bays to an Actor should fall
Tom told 'em, to put his Desart to the Test,
That he had Maid Plays as well as the best,
And was the great'lt Wonder the Age ever bore,
Of all the Play-Scriblers that e'er writ before,
His Wit had moft Worth, and Modesty in't,
For he had writ Plays, yet ne'er came in Print.
4. SATYR upon the Follies of the

Men of the AGE.
By the Duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of

Rochester. When Shakespear

, Johnson, Fletcher, Rul'a They took so bold a Freedom with the Age,

That

That there were scarce a Knave, or Fool in Town
Of any Note, but had his Pi&ure shown;
And (without doubt) tho' some it may offend,
Nothing helps more than Satyr, to amend
Ill Manners, or is trulier Virtues Friend:
Princes may Laws Ordain, Priests gravely Preach,
But Poets more successfully will teach

3
For as a Passing-Bell frights from his Meat,
The greedy Sick-man, that too much would eat;
So when a Vice ridiculous is made,
Our Neighbours Shame keeps us from growing

bad,
But wholesome Remedies few Palates pleale,
Men rather love what flatters their Disease ;
Pimps, Parasites, Buffoons, and all the Crero
That under Friendship's Name weak Man undo,
Find their false Service kindlier understood,
Than such as tell both Truths to do us good
Look where you will, and you shall hardly find
A Man without some Sickness of the Mind:
In vain we Wife would seem, while ev'ry Luft
Whisks us about, as Whirl.winds do the Dust.
Here for some needless Gain, the Wretch is hurl'd
From Pole to Pole, and flav'd about the World,
While the Reward of all bis Pains and Care,
Ends in that despicable Thing, his Heir.
There a vain Fop Mortgages all his Land,
To buy that gawdy Play-thing, a Command;
To ride a Cock-horfe, wear a Scarf at's Arse,
And play the Pudding in a May-day Farce,
Here one whom God to make a Fool thought fit,
In spight of Providence will be a Wit;

But

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