A New SESSION OF THE POETS, &c.
AS in our Late Elective Monarchies,
Whene're the Prince, the chosen Darling, dies,
Each petty Pow'r would to the Scepter rise:
So since Wit's mighty Monarch, Dryden's dead,
What an Inglorious Rhyming Race succeed!
Vile Sonnetteers, that would their Sylvia's praise,
E'en, to his cost, Motte [...]ux's Immortal Lays,
Have yet so little Grace to hope the Bays.
Each one the Wreath does to himself decree,
And ev'ry Blockhead would a Laureat be.
Appollo, who from High beheld their Jarrs,
And all the Tuneful Tribe at Civil Wars,
Upon a Ray of his own Light slid down,
To find among the Crowd some wondrous One,
That well again the Sacred Wreath might wear,
And the departed Dryden justly Heir.
[Page 2] The Gaudy God, did soon Himself proclaim;
To whom in Troops, the Airy-Sons of Fame,
From humble Elegy, to Epick, came.
Some come from Will's, and some from Rouse's come;
Some wondrous warm, extreamly Sober some;
Some out of gloomy Cellars, upwards bend;
From Garrets some, Six Stories down, descend:
Each left his known, or else unknown Abode,
And all obey'd the Summons of the God.
Tom D'Vr—y first endeavour'd at the Bays,
With twice five hundred Songs, and twenty Plays:
The dangling Dogrel hung like Pantaloons,
Set by himself to other Peoples Tunes:
Before him on an Ass, extreamly odd,
His own, and not Cervante's Sancho, rode;
Who threaded home-spun Proverbs at the God.
The Bard had made his Bows, and Sung his Name,
When, as the Devil would ha't, in Coll—r came:
Upon his Sight the Songster left the Place,
And by that Act alone confess'd some Grace.
D'Vr—y withdrawn, a Brace of Criticks came,
That would by other's Failures purchase Fame:
This peevish Race will take a World of Pains,
To shew that both the Arthurs had no Brains;
And labour hard to bring Authentick Proof,
That he that wrote Wit's Satyr was an Oaf.
[Page 3] Like Bedlam Curs, all that they meet they bite,
Make War with Wit, and worry all that write:
Thus while on Shakespear one with Fury flew,
T'other his Pen on well-bred Waller drew;
Writ on, and vainly ventur'd to expose
The noblest Verse, and most exalted Prose:
To both these Bards Heav'n gave so little Grace,
As of Apollo to demand the Bays.
After a Pause—Bright Phoebus Silence broke,
And with a Frown to both by Turns thus spoke:
How durst thou, Caitiff, Shakespear to asperse,
Thou wretchedst Rhymer in the Universe!
The Muses Streams on thee have lost their Force,
Zounds! Helicon's a River for an Horse.
And you, audacious Mortal, tell me why
You dare my Fav'rite Waller's Faults descry,
And yet expose your own vile Elegy?
Why d'ye in Mood and Figure play the Fool,
Whilst all the Plays you write, are wrote by Rule,
Confoundedly correct, and just as dull?
Who would not swear, that sees Rinaldo play'd,
(Such work you make betwixt good Devils and bad)
The Author were, with his Armida, mad?
Revere the Dead, the Living let alone,
But if, in spight of me, you must write on,
Leave other's Works to Criticize your own.
Criticks, cried He, are most of all unfit,
To fill the Peaceful Throne of awful Wit:
[Page 4] A Tyrant Critick would my State o'return;
Poesy would weep, and all the Muses mourn.
Who to the Bays would make a just Pretence,
Must merit 'em by his own Excellence,
Not be a Wit, by others want of Sence.
Rim—r at this, and Den—s too sate down,
And in their stead stood up late-bruis'd Tom Br—n:
While with the Rake, the more to raise his Fame,
The Spanish Lass, and Senior Gaya came;
With many a Bold, unlicenc'd Interloper,
And in the Rear march't honest Abel Rop—r.
Pin'd to his Back were Rhymes without a Name,
Which oft had purchas'd him both Blows, and Fame.
For whatsoe're was scandalously writ,
No Author known, Tom's Carcass paid for it:
Who pray'd Apollo to reward his Lays,
And to much Birch to add a little Bays,
Oh Heav'ns, cry'd out Apollo, grant me patience!
Must I thus still be teiz'd with damn'd Translations?
An Author can't in French, or Spanish prate,
But you must make the Sot speak English straight!
As if within this lewd licentious Town,
We'd not enow vile Authors of our own!
Then told him, that he did not now Translate,
As heretofore, for Glory, but to Eat:
That Bards should never offer at the Bays,
That often Dine but once in twice two days.
Pitt—s had to the God his Honours done,
But knowing well Tom's Case, and his, were one,
Just as he rose, as decently sate down.
Flush'd with Success Faqu—r appear'd, and thought
Apollo would, what all the Town, applaud.
Then gave the Gaudy God that Iubilee,
Which only in the Title Page we see.
Apollo told him with a bended Brow,
He'd borrow'd, from his Saint, Sir George, his Beau;
That Dorimant was Wildair long ago.
That it would much disgrace the Throne of Wit,
If on't an Irish Deputy should sit;
And wonder'd why he'd longer here remain,
Who in his Native Boggs might justly reign.
Of Plays, and Poems Cr—n produc'd a load,
And all the Lumber laid before the God.
And shew'd the Judge in vile Heroick Chime
Ierusalem once more destroy'd in Rhyme.
Who soon was told those Dogrel Days were done,
That now 'twas Sence, not Rhyme, that took the Town.
When lo! a busy Bard came pressing on,
And cleft the Crowd, and elbow'd every one;
And that the Judge his Name might understand,
He brought a Brittish Hero in each Hand,
[Page 6] Who with him in a Coach, their Birth-place, rode,
And, being alighted, thus address'd the God:
I, bright Apollo, come, said he, to sue
For what the World long since allow'd my due:
Gods, who no Envy have like mortal Men,
May Justice do the Labours of my Pen:
Nor yet by Human Pow'rs have I been slighted,
For if I am not Laureated, I'm Knighted.
Then, putting hand beneath the Tufted Robe,
Pull'd out a hopeful Paraphrase on Iob.
Enough, replied the Deity, enough:
Long since I've seen thy sad Romantick Stuff:
Thy Doughty Arthurs ev'ry where are known,
And have like Fame with that of Bradely won:
In which thy Rhymes a constant Cadence keep,
At once they make us smile, and make us sleep:
And he that can in Iob six Pages view,
Ought to possess your Prophet's Patience too.
'Twould much disturb the Manes of the Dead,
Should I misplace the Wreath upon thy Head.
The injur'd Shade himself would Justice do,
And Epilogue, and Prologue thee anew:
Put up thy Pen, and Noble Verse give o're,
Quack, and kill on, but murder me no more.
Stiff, as his Works, th' elab'rate Cong—ve came,
Who could so soon Preferment get, and Fame.
[Page 7] And with him brought the Product of his Pen,
Miss Prue before, behind his Back stood Ben:
Who quickly found the Foible of the Town,
When ev'ry thing that Dogget did went down.
His Double Dealer at a distance stood,
At once extreamly regular, and lew'd.
While in Procession by their Parent's Side
March't the Old Batchelour and Mourning Bride.
Then, at Apollo's Feet his Labours laid,
Thus to his Sire with good assurance said:
If, bright Apollo, Young to gain renown,
And please each Palate in this Ticklish Town,
Has been my Talent still, and mine alone;
Your Godship must the Laurel needs allow
Of all your Sons, the best to suit my Brow:
This Truth the Under-Graduates all confess
Of both the Famous Universities.
And who so fit to be great Dryden's Heir,
As he, who living did his Empire share?
This said, he bow'd, and bluffishly sate down;
Whilst thus the God harangu'd his hopeful Son.
How can you from those Bards expect the Bays,
Who him that wore 'em, could so sadly praise?
Those Princes Titles justly we suspect,
Whom the unthinking, giddy Mob elect.
If on you headlong hurry with the Herd,
Arthur to Absolom, will be preferr'd
[Page 8] All-pleasing
Garth, to
Milbourn must give place,
And Med'cine leave the Throne of Wit, for Grace.
E're at the Wreath you reach, all else excell:
You write correct, but Southern writes as well.
Avoid Bombast, still the Sublime pursue,
By Merit rise, and not by Mon—gue:
Take Nature for your Guide; and when I see
You up to Otway come, or Wicherly,
You'll find your pretty Parts may be preferr'd,
And time, the Bays may get you, and a Beard.
Just at the Word, a Brawny Bard came in,
Cheerful his Look, and manly was his Mien;
The Jolly Muse, attended by the Nine,
Came into Court, reading Boileau's Lutrin;
While to our wonder (how good Wits agree!)
'Twas strait transform'd to the Dispensary.
Apollo, who with Joy the Work had read,
Enclining to the Bard his Beamy Head,
After a smile, to's Darling Son thus said:
Others by many Works have sought that Crown,
Which you much more have merited by one.
How much the World does to thy Genius owe,
Who not Translate, but can Improve D'Espreaux!
Your beauteous Turns your wondrous Sence express;
While all your Thoughts in Dryden's Garb you dress.
[Page 9] And would you but some fulsome Couplets raze,
Full of low Flatt'ry, and of partial Praise,
Believe your God, you might demand the Bays.
Next Southern to the Judge himself apply'd,
With haughty Oroonoko by his side,
The Ladies Pity, and the Authors Pride.
Southern who still shew'd Nature on the Stage,
Not whine his Tender, nor too rough his Rage.
The God soon told him he had gain'd the Bays,
Had he contented been t'have wrote three Plays:
But since he knew not when he he'd Glory won,
'Twas just that Capua's Fate should prove his own.
At this a Bard that had Usurp't the Bays
E're since that Dearth of Wit, Mac Fleckno's Days,
Resolv'd to lay the dubious Title down,
And from Apollo only hold his Crown.
Some Annual Odes, Hymns, Elegies, and Psalms,
Besides a Play, were all that fill'd his Palms:
Apollo view'd him stript of all his State,
And by his Modesty soon knew Nat T—te:
Then smiling said, that whatsoe're he wrote
Was always smooth, nor sometimes wanted Thought;
But swore with Passion by the Lake call'd Stygian,
No Laureat e're should meddle with Religion:
In this, said he, my Dryden's self was out,
Who still wrote worse, the more he grew Devout.
[Page 10] The Spotted
Panther thus brought
Brindle Praise;
One got the Gold, and t'other lost the Bays.
Then, after Silence thrice proclaim'd aloud,
Th' Immortal thus bespake th' Aspiring Crowd.
Ye Sons of Wit, 'tis by your God decreed,
That till some one can match the mighty Dead,
The Wreath remain on the De Facto's Head.
This said, in Flames he upward took his Flight;
And streak'd the Air with trembling Tracks of Light.
FINIS.