Imatges de pàgina
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Then my lord call'd me: Harris, (said my lord,)

don't cry,

I'll give you something towards your loss: and (says my lady,) so will I.'

'Oh! but, (said I,) what if, after all, my chaplain won't come to?"

'For that,' he said, (an't please your Excellencies) I must petition you.

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The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your Excellencies' protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection;

And, over and above, that I may have your Excellencies' letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, or instead of him, a better:

And then your poor petitioner, both night and day, Or the chaplain, for 'tis his trade, as in duty bound, shall ever pray.'

VERSES

WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY TABLE-BOOK.

1706.

PERUSE my leaves through every part,
And think thou seest my owner's heart,
Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite
As hard, as senseless, and as light,
Exposed to every coxcomb's eyes,
But hid with caution from the wise.

Here you may read, Dear charming saint,'
Beneath, A new receipt for paint;'

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Here in beau-spelling, Tru tel deth,'

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There in her own, Far an ell breth ;'
Here, Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom,'
There, A safe way to use perfume;'
Here, a page fill'd with billet-doux,

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On the other side, Laid out for shoes ;'-
Madam, I die without your grace;'
Item, For half a yard of lace.'

Who that had wit would place it here,
For every peeping fop to jeer,

In power of spittle and a clout,
Whene'er he please, to blot it out:
And then, to heighten the disgrace,
Clap his own nonsense in the place?
Whoe'er expects to hold his part
In such a book and such a heart,
If he be wealthy and a fool,
Is in all points the fittest tool;
Of whom it may be justly said,
He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead.

VANBRUGH'S HOUSE.

BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL

THAT WAS BURNED.

1706.

In times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,

A verse could draw a stone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile :
Each number had its different power:
Heroic strains could build a tower;
Sonnets or elegies to Chloris

Might raise a house about two stories;
A lyric ode would slate; a catch
Would tile; an epigram would thatch.
But to their own or landlord's cost,
Now poets feel this art is lost:
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a song;
For Jove consider'd well the case,
Observed they grew a numerous race,
And should they build as fast as write,
"Twould ruin undertakers quite:
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wisely changed their element;
On earth the god of wealth was made
Sole patron of the building-trade,
Leaving the wits the spacious air,
With licence to build castles there;

And 'tis conceived their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
Premising thus, in modern way,
The better half we have to say:
Sing, Muse! The House of Poet Van
In higher strains then we began.

Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it)
Is both a herald and a poet;
No wonder then if nicely skill'd
In both capacities to build.
As herald, he can in a day
Repair a house gone to decay,
Or by achievement, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice;

And as a poet, he has skill

To build in speculation still.

'Great Jove! (he cried,) the art restore
To build by verse as heretofore,
And make my Muse the architect;
What palaces shall we erect!
No longer shall forsaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in flames ;
A pile shall from its ashes rise
Fit to invade or prop the skies.'
Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god,
Consenting with the usual nod,
Told Van he knew his talent best,
And left the choice to his own breast:
So Van resolved to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect supplies,
Takes a French play as lawful prize,
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once suspecting Jove would smoke,

And (like a wag) sat down to write,
Would whisper to himself, A bite;'
Then from the motley-mingled style
Proceeded to erect his pile.

tricks?

So men of old, to gain renown, did
Build Babel with their tongues confounded.
Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best
To turn the matter to a jest;
Down from Olympus' top he slides,
Laughing as if he'd burst his sides.
'Ay, (thought the god,) are these your
Why, then old plays deserve old bricks;
And since you're sparing of your stuff,
Your building shall be small enough.'
He spake, and, grudging, lent his aid;
The' experienced bricks, that knew their trade,
(As being bricks at second hand)
Now move, and now in order stand.

The building, as the poet writ,

Rose in proportion to his wit:
And first the prologue built a wall
So wide as to encompass all:
The scene, a wood, produced no more
Than a few scrubby trees before :
The plot as yet lay deep, and so
A cellar next was dug below;
But this a work so hard was found,
Two acts it cost him under ground:
Two other acts, we may presume,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanced,, he made a shift
To raise a roof with act the fifth;
The epilogue behind did frame
A place not decent here to name.

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