Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand. St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal time, Not ev'n the feet of thy own Psyche's rime: Though they in number as in sense excel; So just, so like tautology, they fell, That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore The lute and sword which he in triumph bore, And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more." Here stopt the good old sire, and wept for joy, In silent raptures of the hopeful boy. All arguments, but most his plays, persuade, That for anointed dulness he was made. Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind, (The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd) An ancient fabric, rais'd t' inform the sight There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight: A watch-tower once; but now so fate ordains, Of all the pile an empty name remains: From its old ruins brothel-houses rise, Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys, Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets keep, And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep. Near these a nursery erects its head Where queens are form'd, and future heroes bred; Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry, Where infant punks their tender voices try, And little Maximins the gods defy. Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here, Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear; But gentle Simkin just reception finds Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds: Poor clinches the suburbian Muse affords, And Panton waging harmless war with words. Here Flecknoe, as a place to fame well known, Ambitiously design'd his Shadwell's throne. For ancient Dekker prophesy'd long since, That in this pile should reign a mighty prince, Born for a scourge of wit, and flail of sense: To whom true dulness should some Psyches owe, But worlds of misers from his pen should flow; Humorists and hypocrites it should produce, Whole Raymond families, and tribes of Bruce. Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling-street. No Persian carpets spread th' imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled Poets lay; From dusty shops neglected authors come, Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum. Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way. Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd, And Herringman was captain of the guard. The hoary prince in majesty appear'd, High on a throne of his own labours rear'd. At his right hand our young Ascanius sate, Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state. His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace, And lambent dulness play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Swore by his sire a mortal foe to Rome; So Shadwell swore, nor should his vow be vain, That he till death true dulness would maintain; And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,