Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A SESSION OF THE POETS, by JOHN WILMOT


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A SESSION OF THE POETS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Since the sons of the muses, grew num'rous, and loud
Last Line: For he had writ plays, yet ne're came in print.
Alternate Author Name(s): Rochester, 2d Earl Of
Subject(s): Actors & Actresses; Betterton, Tom (1635-1710); Plays & Playwrights; Poetry & Poets


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





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