A NEW SESSION OF THE POETS, Occasioned by the DEATH OF Mr. DRYDEN.  
By a Person of Honour.  
LONDON, Printed for A. Baldwin in Warwick-lane, 1700.  
There is newly Reprinted Scarron's Novels in One Volume, viz. The Fruitless Precaution: The Hypocrites: The Innocent Adultery: The Judge in his own Cause: The Rival Brothers: The Invisible Mistress: The Chastisement of Avarice: And, The Unexpected Choice: Translated into English by I. D. Esquire. The Fourth Edition Enlarged. Printed for R. Wellington at the Dolphin and Crown, the West-end of St. Paul's Churchyard; where Gentlemen and Ladies may be furnished with all sorts of Plays and Novels.   

A New SESSION OF THE POETS, etc.  

AS in our Late Elective Monarchies,  
whenever the Prince, the chosen Darling, dies,  
Each petty Power would to the Sceptre rise:  
So since Wit's mighty Monarch, Dryden's dead,  
What an Inglorious Rhyming Race succeed!  
Vile Sonnetteers, that would their Sylvia's praise,  
Even, 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 every Blockhead would a Laureate be.   

Apollo, who from High beheld their Jars,  
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.  
The Gaudy God, did soon Himself proclaim;  
To whom in Troops, the Airy-Sons of Fame,  
From humble Elegy, to Epic, came.  
Some come from Will's, and some from Rouse's come;  
Some wondrous warm, extremely 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 obeyed the Summons of the God.   

Tom D'Vr— y first endeavoured at the Bays,  
With twice five hundred Songs, and twenty Plays:  
The dangling Doggerel hung like Pantaloons,  
Set by himself to other People's Tunes:  
Before him on an Ass, extremely odd,  
His own, and not Cervante's Sancho, road;  
Who threaded homespun Proverbs at the God.  
The Bard had made his Bows, and Sung his Name,  
When, as the Devil would have't, in Coll— r came:  
Upon his Sight the Songster left the Place,  
And by that Act alone confessed some Grace.   

D'Vr— y withdrawn, a Brace of Critics came,  
That would by other's Failures purchase Fame:  
This peevish Race will take a World of Pains,  
To show that both the arthur's had no Brains;  
And labour hard to bring Authentic Proof,  
That he that wrote Wit's satire was an Oaf.  
Like Bedlam Curs, all that they meet they by't,  
Make War with Wit, and worry all that writ:  
Thus while on Shakespeare one with Fury flew,  
Tother his Pen on well-bred Waller drew;  
Writ on, and vainly ventured to expose  
The noblest Verse, and most exalted Prose:  
To both these Bards Heaven 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 dared thou, Caitiff, Shakespeare to asperse,  
Thou wretchedst Rhymer in the Universe!  
The Muse's 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 Favourite 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 writ, are wrote by Rule,  
Confoundedly correct, and just as dull?  
Who would not swear, that sees Rinaldo played,  
(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 spite of me, you must write on,  
Leave other's Works to Criticise your own.  
Critics, cried He, are most of all unfit,  
To fill the Peaceful Throne of awful Wit:  
A Tyrant Critic would my State overturn;  
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 Sense.  
Rim— r at this, and Den— s too sat down,   

And in their stead stood up late-bruised 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 marched honest Abel Rop— r.  
Pined to his Back were Rhymes without a Name,  
Which oft had purchased him both Blows, and Fame.  
For whatsoever was scandalously writ,  
No Author known, Tom's Carcase paid for it:  
Who prayed Apollo to reward his Lays,  
And to much Birch to add a little Bays,  
Oh heavens, cried out Apollo, grant me patience!  
Must I thus still be teized with damned Translations?  
An Author can't in French, or Spanish prate,  
But you must make the Sot speak English strait!  
As if within this lewd licentious Town,  
We'd not enough 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 risen, as decently sat down.   

Flushed with Success Faqu— r appeared, and thought  
Apollo would, what all the Town, applaud.  
Then gave the Gaudy God that jubilee,  
Which only in the Title Page we see.  
Apollo told him with a bended Brow,  
He'd borrowed, 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 wondered why he'd longer hear remain,  
Who in his Native Bogs might justly reign.   

Of Plays, and Poems Cr— n produced a load,  
And all the Lumber laid before the God.  
And showed the Judge in vile Heroic Chime  
jerusalem once more destroyed in Rhyme.  
Who soon was told those Doggerel Days were done,  
That now 'twas Sense, not Rhyme, that took the Town.   

When lo! a busy Bard came pressing on,  
And cloven the Crowd, and elbowed every one;  
And that the Judge his Name might understand,  
He brought a British Hero in each Hand,  
Who with him in a Coach, their Birth-place, road,  
And, being alighted, thus addressed the God:  
I, bright Apollo, come, said he, to sue  
For what the World long since allowed my due:  
Gods, who no Envy have like mortal Men,  
May Justice do the Labours of my Pen:  
Nor yet by Human Powers have I been slighted,  
For if I am not Laureated, I'm Knighted.  
Then, putting hand beneath the Tufted Robe,  
Pulled out a hopeful Paraphrase on job.  
Enough, replied the Deity, enough:  
Long since I've seen thy sad Romantic Stuff:  
Thy Doughty Arthur's every 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 job 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 injured Shade himself would Justice do,  
And Epilogue, and Prologue thee anew:  
Put up thy Pen, and Noble Verse give o'er,  
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.  
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 every thing that Dogget did went down.  
His Double Dealer at a distance stood,  
At once extremely regular, and lewd.  
While in Procession by their Parent's Side  
Marched the Old Bachelor 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 Talon still, and mine alone;  
Your Godship must the Laurel needs allow  
Of all your Sons, the best to suit my Brow:  
This Truth the Undergraduates 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 bowed, and bluffishly sat down;  
Whilst thus the God harangued his hopeful Son.  
How can you from those Bards expect the Bays,  
Who him that wore 'em, could so sadly praise?  
Those Prince's Titles justly we suspect,  
Whom the unthinking, giddy Mob elect.  
If on you headlong hurry with the Herd,  
Arthur to Absolom, will be preferred  
All-pleasing Garth, to Milbourn must give place,  
And Medicine leave the Throne of Wit, for Grace.  
ere at the Wreath you reach, all else excel:  
You writ 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 preferred,  
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 straight transformed to the Dispensary.  
Apollo, who with Joy the Work had read,  
Inclining 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 Sense express;  
While all your Thoughts in Dryden's Garb you dress.  
And would you but some fulsome Couplets raze,  
Full of low Flattery, and of partial Praise,  
Believe your God, you might demand the Bays.   

Next Southern to the Judge himself applied,  
With haughty Oroonoko by his side,  
The Lady's Pity, and the Author's Pride.  
Southern who still showed Nature on the Stage,  
Not whine his Tender, nor too rough his Rage.  
The God soon told him he had gained 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 Usurped the Bays  
e'er since that Dearth of Wit, Mac Fleckno's Days,  
Resolved 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 filled his Palms:  
Apollo viewed him stripped of all his State,  
And by his Modesty soon knew Nat T—te:  
Then smiling said, that whatsoever he wrote  
Was always smooth, nor sometimes wanted Thought;  
But swore with Passion by the Lake called Stygian,  
No Laureate e'er should meddle with Religion:  
In this, said he, my Dryden's self was out,  
Who still wrote worse, the more he grew Devout.  
The Spotted Panther thus brought Brindle Praise;  
One got the Gold, and t'other lost the Bays.   

Then, after Silence thrice proclaimed aloud,  
Th' Immortal thus bespoke 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 streaked the Air with trembling Tracks of Light.   
FINIS.   

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