A SESSIONS OF THE POETS.
A SESSION was held the other day, And Apollo himself was at it (they say:) The laurel that had been so long reserv'd, Was now to be given to him best deserv'd.
Therefore the wits of the town came thither, 'Twas strange to see how they flocked together. Each strongly confident of his own way, Thought to gain the laurel away that day.
There Selden and he sate hard by the chair; Weniman not far off, which was very fair; Sands with Townsend, for they kept no order; Digby and Shillingsworth little further:
There was Lucan's translator too, and he That makes God speak so big in's poetry; Selwin and Walter, and Bartlets both the brothers; Jack Vaughan and Porter, and divers others. The first that broke silence was good old Ben, Prepar'd before with Canary wine,
And he told them plainly he deserv'd the bays, For his were call'd works, where others' were but
Bid them remember how he had purg'd the stage Of errours that had lasted many an age; And he hopes they did not think the Silent Woman, The Fox, and the Alchymist, out-done by no man. Apollo stopt him there, and bade him not go on, 'Twas merit, he said, and not presumption, Must carry't; at which Ben turned about, And in great choler offer'd to go out :
Those that were there thought it not fit To discontent so ancient a wit;
And therefore Apollo call'd him back again, And made him mine host of his own New Inn.
Tom Carew was next, but he had a fault That would not well stand with a laureat;
His Muse was hard bound, and th' issue of 's brain Was seldom brought forth but with trouble and pain.
All that were present there did agree, A laureat Muse should be easie and free; Yet sure t'was not that, but 'twas thought that his Consider'd he was well, he had a cup bearer's place.
Will Davenant, asham'd of a foolish mischance That he had got lately travelling in France, Modestly hoped the handsomness of 's Muse Might any deformity about him excuse.
Surely the company would have been content, If they could have found any precedent; But in all their records, either in verse or prose, There was not one laureat without a nose.
To Will Bartlet sure all the wits meant well, But first they would see how his snow would sell: Will smil'd, and swore in their judgments they That concluded of merit upon success. [went less,
Suddenly taking his place again,
He gave way to Selwin, who straight stept in; But, alas! he had been so lately a wit, That Apollo hardly knew him yet.
Toby Matthews (pox on him, how came he there?) Was whispering nothing in some body's ear, When he had the honour to be nam'd in court: But, sir, you may thank my lady Carlile for't:
For had not her care furnisht you out With something of handsome, without all doubt You and your sorry lady Muse had been In the number of those that were not let in.
In haste from the court two or three came in, And they brought letters (forsooth) from the queen. 'Twas discreetly done too; for if th' had come Without them, th' had scarce been let into the
Suckling next was call'd, but did not appear; But straight one whisper'd Apollo i'th' ear, That of all men living he cared not for't, He loved not the Muses so well as his sport; VOL. V.
And prized black eyes, or a lucky hit At bowls, above all the trophies of wit; But Apollo was angry, and publicly said, 'Twere fit that a fine were set upon's head.
Wat Montague now stood forth to his tryal, And did not so much as suspect a denial; But witty Apollo asked him first of all, If he understod his own Pastoral.
For if he could do it, 'twould plainly appear He understood more than any man there, And did merit the bayes above all the rest; But the mounsieur was modest, and silence confest. During these troubles in the court was hid One that Apollo soon mist, little Cid:
And having spied him, call'd him out of the throng, And advis'd him in his ear not to write so strong.
Murrey was summon'd, but 'twas urg'd that he Was chief already of another company.
Hales, set by himself, most gravely did smile, To see them about nothing keep such a coil; Apollo had spied him; but, knowing his mind, Past by, and call'd Faulkland, that sat just behind :
He was of late so gone with divinity, That he had almost forgot his poetry;
Though to say the truth, (and Apollo did know it) He might have been both his priest and his poet.
At length, who but an alderman did appear, At which will Davenant began to swear; But wiser Apollo bade him draw nigher, And when he was mounted a little higher, Openly declar'd, that the best sign
Of good store of wit's to have good store of coin: And without a syllable more or less said, He put the lawrel on the alderman's head.
At this all the wits were in such a maze, That for a good while they did nothing but gaze One upon another, not a man in the place But had discontent writ in great in his face. Only the small poets clear'd up again,
Out of hope, as 'twas thought of borrowing: But sure they were out, for he forfeits his crown, When he lends any poets about the town.
WHY so pale and wan, fond love? Pr'ythee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?
Pr'ythee why so pale!
Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Pr'ythee, why so mute?
Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?
Pr'ythee, why so mute?
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