Now Empress Fame had publish'd the renown Of Shadwell's coronation through the town. Roused by report of fame, the nations meet, From near Bunhill, and distant Watling Street. No Persian carpets spread the imperial way, But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay: From dusty shops neglected authors come, 100 Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum. Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby[150] there lay, But loads of Shadwell almost choked the way. Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepared, And Herringman[151] 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, 110 And lambent dulness play'd around his face. As Hannibal did to the altars come, Sworn by his fire, 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, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with sense. The king himself the sacred unction made, As king by office, and as priest by trade. In his sinister hand, instead of ball, 120 He placed a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's Kingdom[152] to his right he did convey, At once his sceptre and his rule of sway; Whose righteous lore the prince had practised young, And from whose loins recorded Psyche sprung. His temples, last, with poppies were o'erspread, That nodding seem'd to consecrate his head. Just at the point of time, if fame not lie, On his left hand twelve reverend owls did fly. So Romulus, 'tis sung, by Tiber's brook, 130 Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. The admiring throng loud acclamations make, And omens of his future empire take. The sire then shook the honours of his head, And from his brows damps of oblivion shed, Full on the filial dulness: long he stood, Repelling from his breast the raging god; At length burst out in this prophetic mood: