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,
  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,
  He plac’d a mighty mug of potent ale;
  Love’s kingdom to his right he did convey,
  At once his sceptre, and his rule of sway;
  Whose righteous lore the prince had practis’d 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,
  Presage of sway from twice six vultures took. 
  Th’ 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. 
    “Heav’ns! bless my son! from Ireland let him reign