[Footnote 192: Settle was poet to the city of London. His office was to compose yearly panegyrics upon the Lord Mayors, and verses to be spoken in the pageants: but that part of the shows being at length abolished, the employment of the city poet ceased; so that upon Settle's death there was no successor appointed to that place.] [Footnote 193: John Heywood, whose "Interludes" were printed in the time of Henry VIII.] [Footnote 194: The first edition had it,-- "She saw in Norton all his father shine": Daniel Defoe was a genius, but Norton Defoe was a wretched writer, and never attempted poetry. Much more justly is Daniel himself made successor to W. Pryn, both of whom wrote verses as well as politics. And both these authors had a semblance in their fates as well as writings, having been alike sentenced to the pillory.] [Footnote 195: Laurence Eusden, poet laureate before Gibber. We have the names of only a few of his works, which were very numerous. Nahum Tate was poet laureate, a poor writer, of no invention; but who sometimes translated tolerably when assisted by Dryden. In the second part of Absalom and Achitophel there are about two hundred lines in all by Dryden which contrast strongly with the insipidity of the rest.] [Footnote 196: John Dennis was the son of a saddler in London, born in 1657. He paid court to Dryden; and having obtained some correspondence with Wycherley and Congreve he immediately made public their letters.] XXXVI. SANDYS' GHOST; OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY. This satire owed its origin to the fact that Sir Samuel Garth was about to publish a new translation of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_. George Sandys--the old translator--died in 1643. Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit, And pleasure about town; Read this ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown. Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin: For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japanned avails To writing of good sense. Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woeful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire. Rare Imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth, Like puppy tame that uses To fetch and carry, in his mouth, The works of all the Muses. Ah! why did he write poetry That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity, To rhyming and the devil? A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without. Now as he scratched to fetch up thought, Forth popped the sprite so thin; And from the key-hole bolted out, All upright as a pin.