The Proclamation of APOLLO. MAY Artemisia hear my Strain, I quote the Sages once again: And shou'd you ask the Reason why, "Old Authors fib, and so may I." Proceed we then — Old Authors say, Apollo once made Holiday, And call'd the Brethren of the Quill, To feast upon his tuneful Hill, From ev'ry Nook and ev'ry Wind: They came, for who wou'd stay behind? Great was the Crowd, as may be guess'd: Side grew to Side, and Back to Breast, Till the Imperial Prince of Song, Who fearing something might be wrong, Sent forth a Troop with Caps and Spears, Much like Parnassian Granadiers, With surly Eyes and sour Faces, To part the Crowd and give 'em Places. Now I have quite forgot, I fear, What Names the People gave 'em there Amongst the Muses — But I trow Men call 'em Criticks here below. Now when at last these sage Reformers, Had drove the Crew to Heaps and Corners, They call'd them out by two and three, And set 'em in a due Degree, That each his proper Place shou'd know, On Laurel Benches all a-row. Now you may think they all were happy, As Drunkard o'er his Jug of Nappy, That ev'ry Brow was smooth and clear, But first I beg you'd lend an Ear: The Queen of Love to grace the Feast, Had sent a thousand Pipes at least Of smiling Nectar neat and fine, To whet the Guests before they dine: But when the Cups had walk'd about, Some surly Bards began to pout, And wrinkle up their tiny Faces, And fret and fume about their Places: Their giddy Brains began to glow, Each thinking he was plac'd too low: This vow'd to make all Creatures fear him, And That cou'd bear no Creature near him. One seem'd to talk with mighty Spirit, Of baffl'd Worth and slighted Merit: Another was in Passion hurl'd, And curs'd the stupid senseless World, Till Choler swell'd in ev'ry Vein, And each no longer cou'd contain, But fairly went, as I'm a Sinner, To Loggerheads before their Dinner. Apollo was offended quite, And all the Muses in a Fright: Then thunder'd out a Proclamation. "O Ye — And all the rhiming Nation, "Our King commands you to be still, "And not disturb the sacred Hill. "If some refusing to be quiet, "Shall dare to aid this lawless Riot: "The Statutes of Parnassian tender "The Stocks to ev'ry such Offender. "At this the Riot seem'd to cease, "And with a murmur sunk in Peace: "When all was silent to a Man, "Again the Herald thus began. "Directed by your Prince I bring "This Message from the laurel'd King, "Who long has view'd with silent Woe "Your Quarrels in the World below, "How moral and satirick Wits "And jingling Pedants — Rhiming Cits, "The gay, the empty, and the full, "The soft, the froward, and the dull, "Wage endless Wars with one another, "And ev'ry Blockhead hates his Brother. "But while you take a world of pains "In pelting at each other's Brains; "While Envy swells the little Mind, "You ne'er consider that you find "(To see you in the Tempest hurl'd) "Diversion for the laughing World; "And so you break all moral Rules "To grow the Mocking-stock of Fools: "But now Apollo begs you will "Suspend your Quarrels, and be still. "Let Wits shake Hands with one another, "And ev'ry Dunce embrace his Brother, "From batter'd Bards with ne'er a Shoe "To those who strut about with two; "From Poets doom'd to whittle Sticks, "To Rhimers in a Coach and Six. "Let none presume to fret and squabble, "Nor curse the dirty rhiming Rabble: "For see the Beams of Phoebus strike "The Meadows, Hills, and Dales alike: "So shines the Muse on ev'ry Creature, "Who tags his humble Lines with Metre. He said — The Children of the Bays Sent up a Shout of mingled Praise, Devoutly promising to pay Obedience to the Prince of Day; And now they see the Tables spread With Dainties and Parnassian Bread, Whose tiny Loaves were nicely white, And no French Rolls were half so light: The first bold Course was brought along In Dishes made of Homer's Song. Next Virgil on the Table shines, And then smooth Ovid's tender Lines. The gay Desert expos'd to view, Of modern Authors not a few, Heroicks in the midst preside, With Elegy on either Side: Here through transparent Sonnets gleam Whip-Syllabubs and spiced Cream: There loaded Epigrams appear, And little Mottos close the Rear. Now Dinner past their jolly Souls, Cut Capers to the Nectar Bowls, Till ev'ry Bard had drank his fill, And then they left the tuneful Hill. But ere they part, the laurel'd King, Extracted from a wond'rous Spring A magick Bath of mighty Pow'r, Whose Virtues could in half an Hour Make Proof against sharp Satyr's Pain, The Fibres of a Dunce's Brain; And give him Confidence to push Through the broad World without a Blush. Apollo next upon the Crew, Bestow'd a Grey-goose Quill or two, With Ink that into Metre runs, And charms against the Fear of Duns. This done dismiss'd 'em, as before, With Sirs, your Servant, and no more.