Earl of Rochester. 157

But i’ th’ crying Sin, Idleness, he was so harden’d,That his long (ev’n Years Silence was not to be pardon’d.

Brawny Wycberley was the next Man soew’d his Face ;Eat Apollo e’en thought him too good for the Place.

No Gentleman-Writer that Office should bear,

’Twas a Trader in Wit the Laurel should wear, 5.As none but a Citizen makes a Lord-Mayor. '

Next into the Croud Tom Sbadwell does wallow,

And swears by his Guts, his Paunch, and his Tallow,’Tis he alone best pleases the Age;

Himself and his Wife have supported the Stage.

Apollo well pleas’d with so bonny a Lad, ■»

To oblige him, he told him, he shou’d be huge glad, >Had he half so much Wit as he (ancy’d he had. JHowever, to please so jovial a Wit,

And to keep him in Humour, Apollo thought fitTo bid him drink on, and keep his old Trick

Os railing at Poets, and (hewing his-.

Nat Lee siept 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 ;Confess’d that indeed he’ad a musical Note,

But sometimes strain’dso hard that herattl’d i’th’Throat jYet owning he’ad Sense, to encourage him for’t,

He made him his Ovid in Augustus's Court.

Poet Settle his Trial was the next came about,

He brought him an Ibrahim with the Preface torn out,And humbly desir’d he might give no Offence;

G—d D—me, cries Shadwell, he cannot write Sense »And Banks, cry’d up Newport, I hate that dull Rogue.Apollo consid’ring he was not in Vogue,

Would not trust his dear Bays with so modest a Fool,And bid the great Boy should be sent back to School.

Tom