A SESSION OF THE POETS by JOHN WILMOT

SINCE the @3Sons@1 of the @3Muses,@1 grew num'rous, and loud,
For th'appeasing so factious, and clam'rous a Crowd;
@3Apollo,@1 thought fit in so weighty a cause,
T'Establish a Government, @3Leader,@1 and @3Laws.@1
The hopes of the @3Bays@1 at this summoning call,
Had drawn'em together, the @3Devil@1 and all;
All thronging and listening, they gap'd for the Blessing,
No @3Presbyter Sermon,@1 had more crowding, and pressing.
In the Head of the Gang @3J[ohn] D[ryden]@1 appear'd,
That Antient grave Wit, so long lov'd, and fear'd;
But @3Apollo,@1 had heard a Story ith'Town,
Of his quitting the @3Muses,@1 to wear the Black @3Gown;@1
And so gave him leave now his @3Poetry's@1 done,
To let him turn @3Priest,@1 now @3R[eeve]@1 is turn'd @3Nun.@1
This Reverend Author was no sooner set by,
But @3Apollo,@1 had got gentle @3George@1, in his Eye,
And frankly confest, of all Men that writ,
There's none had more fancy, sense Judgment and @3Wit.@1
But'th' crying Sin, idleness, he was so harden'd,
That his long Seav'n years silence, was not to be pardon'd.
Brawny @3W[icherley],@1 was the next Man shew'd his Face,
But @3Apollo,@1 e'ne thought him too good for the Place;
No @3Gentleman Writer,@1 that office shou'd bear
'Twas a @3Trader@1 in @3Wit@1 the @3Lawrel@1 shou'd wear.
As none but a @3Citt,@1 e're makes a @3Lord Mayor.@1
Next into the Crowd, @3Tom@1 S@3[hadwell]@1, does wallow,
And Swears by his @3Guts,@1 his @3Paunch,@1 and his @3Tallow,@1
'Tis he that alone best pleases the Age,
Himself, and his @3Wife@1 have supported the @3Stage.@1
@3Apollo@1 well pleas'd with so bonny a @3Lad,@1
T'oblige him, he told him he shou'd be huge glad,
Had he half so much @3Wit,@1 as he fanc'd he had.
However to please so @3Jovial a Wit,@1
And to keep him in humor, @3Apollo,@1 thought fit,
To bid him drink on and keep his Old Trick
Of railing at @3Poets,@1 and shewing his @3Pr**k.@1
@3N[at] L[ee]@1, stept in next in hopes of a Prize,
@3Apollo,@1 remember'd he had hit once in Thrice;
By the Rubyes in's Face, he cou'd not deny,
But he had as much Wit, as @3Wine@1 cou'd supply;
Confest that indeed he had a @3Musical Note,@1
But sometimes strain'd so hard he rattled i'th'Throat,
Yet owning he had @3Sense,@1 t'incourage him for't,
He made him his @3Ovid@1 in Augustus's Court.@1
Poet @3S[ettle],@1 his Tryal, was the next came about,
He brought him an @3Ibrahim,@1 with the Preface tornout,
And humbly desir'd, he might give no offence;
God damme, cryes @3S[hadwell]@1 he cannot write sense,
And Ballocks cry'd @3Newport@1, I hate that dull @3Rogue,
Apollo@1, consid'ring he was not in vogue
Wou'd not trust his dear @3Bays@1, with so modest a Fool,
And bid the great @3Boy,@1 shou'd be sent back to @3School.@1
@3Tom O[tway]@1 came next, @3Tom S[hadwell's],@1 dear @3Zany;@1
And swears for @3Heroicks,@1 he writes best of any;
@3Don C[arlos]@1 his Pockets so amply hath fill'd,
That his @3Mange@1 was quite cur'd, and his @3Lice,@1 were all kill'd.
But @3Apollo,@1 had seen his Face on the @3Stage,@1
And prudently did not think fir to engage,
The scum of a @3Play-house,@1 for the Prop of an @3 Age.@1
In the numerous Herd, that encompast him round
Little starch @3Jonny C[rowne]@1 at his Elbow he found,
His @3Crevat-string,@1 new Iron'd, he gently did stretch,
His Lilly white hand out, the @3Lawrel@1 to reach;
Alledging that he had most right to the @3Bays@1,
For writing @3Romances,@1 and shiting of @3Plays,@1
@3Apollo@1, rose up and gravely confest,
Of all @3Men@1 that had writ, his @3Tallent@1 was best:
For since pain, and dishonour, @3Mans@1 life only damn,
The greatest felicity, @3Mankind@1 can claim,
Is to want sense of smart & be past sense of shame:
And to perfect his @3Bliss,@1 in @3Poetical Rapture,@1
He bid him be dull to the end of the @3Chapter.@1
The @3Poetess Afra,@1 next shew'd her sweet face,
And swore by her @3Poetry,@1 and her black @3Ace,@1
The Laurel, by a double right was her own,
For the @3Plays@1 she had writ, and the @3Conquests@1 she had won:
@3Apollo@1 acknowledg'd 'twas hard to deny her,
Yet to deal franckly, and ingeniously by her,
He told her @3Conquests@1 and @3Charmes@1 pretence,
She ought to have pleaded a Dozen years since.
put in for a share,
And little @3Tom Essences Author,@1 was there
Nor cou'd @3D[urfey]@1 for bear for the @3Lawrel@1 to stickle,
Protesting he had had the Honor to tickle,
The Eares of the @3Town,@1 with his dear @3Madam Fickle.@1
With other pretenders, whose names I'd rehearse,
But that they're too long to stand in my @3Verse,@1
@3Apollo,@1 quite tir'd with their tedious @3Harrangue@1,
Finds at last @3Tom B[etterton's],@1 face in the gang,
And since @3Poets@1 with the kind @3Play'rs,@1 may hang,
By his own light, he solemnly swore,
That in his search for a @3Laureate,@1 he'd look no more.
A general murmur ran quite through the @3Hall,@1
To think that the @3Bays,@1 to an @3Actor,@1 shou'd fall,
But @3Apollo,@1 to quiet, and pacifie all;
E'ne told 'em to put his desert to the Test,
That he had made Plays aswel as the best;
And was the greatest wonder, the @3Age@1 ever bore
For of all the @3Play-Scriblers,@1 that e're writ before,
His wit had most worthy, and most modesty in't,
For he had writ @3Plays,@1 yet ne're came in print.

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