At Chrift'nings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart :
Wish'd Women might have Children fast,
And thought whofe Sow had farrow'd last:
Against Diffenters would repine,
And stood up firm for Right Divine:
Found his Head fill'd with many a System,
But Claffick Authors,he ne'er mist 'em.
THUS having furbish'd up a Parfon,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their Farce on :
Instead of home-spun Coifs were seen
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen:
Her Petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black Sattin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown.
Philemon was in great Surprize,
And hardly could believe his Eyes:
Amaz'd to see her look fo prim:
And the admir'd as much at him.
THUS, happy in their Change of Life,
Were feveral Years the Man and Wife:
When on a Day, which prov'd their laft,
Difcourfing o'er old Stories paft;
They went by chance, amidst their Taik,
In the Church-yard, to fetch a Walk:
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
My Dear, I fee your Forehead fprout!
Sprout, quoth the Man, what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous:
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really yours-is budding too
Nay, now I cannot ftir Foot;
It feels as if "twere taking Root.
DESCRIPTION would but tire Muse: In short, they both were turn'd to Yews.
OLD Goodman Dobfon, of the Green,
Remembers he the Trees hath feen;
He'll talk of them from Noon to Night,
And goes with Folks to shew the Sight;
On Sundays, after Evening Prayer,
He gathers all the Parish there;
Points out the Place, of either Yew:
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
'Till once, a Parfon of our Town,
To mend his Barn, cut Baucis down;
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd:
Grew scrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted;
So, the next Parson stubb'd and burnt it.
Built from the Ruins of Whitehall that was Burnt.
Written in the Year 1708.
N Times of Old, when Time was young,
And Poets their own Verfes fung,
A Verfe could draw a Stone or Beam,
That now would over-load a Team;
Lead 'em a Dance of many a Mile,
Then rear 'em to a goodly Pile.
Each Number had its diff'rent Pow'r;
Heroic Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnet, or Elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a House about two Stories;
A Lyric Ode would flate; a Catch
Would tile; an Epigram would thatch.
BUT to their own, or Landlord's Coft,'
Now Poets feel this Art is loft;
Not one of all our tuneful Throng
Can raise a Lodging for a Song.
For Jove confider'd well the Cafe;
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous Race,
And should they build as faft as write,
Twould ruin Undertakers quite.
This Evil therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their Element:
On Earth, the God of Wealth was made
Sole Patron of the Building Trade;
Leaving the Wits the fpacious Air,
With Licence to build Caftles there:
And 'tis conceiv'd their old Pretence
To lodge in Garrets, comes from thence.
PREMISING thus in modern Way The better Half we have to fay; Sing Mufe, the House of Poet Van In higher Strains than 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 Atchievement, Arms, Device,
Erect a new one in a Trice.
And, as a Poet, he hath Skill
To build in Speculation ftill,
Great Jove! he cry'd, the Art restore,
To build by Verse, as heretofore;
And make my Muse the Architect;
What Palaces fhall we erect!
No longer fhall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in Flames;
A Pile fhall from its Ashes rise,
Fit to invade, or prop the Skies.
JOVE fmil'd, and 'like a gentle God,
Confenting with his ufual Nod:
Told Van he knew his Talent beft,
And left the Choice to his own Breast.
So Van refolv'd 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 ev'ry Joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would smoke;
And (like a Wag) fat down to write,
Would whisper to himself; A Bite.
Then from this motly mingled Style
Proceeded to erect his Pile.
So Men of old, to gain Renown, did
Build Babel with their Tongues confounded.
Jove faw the Cheat, but thought it best
To turn the Matter to a Jeft:
Down from Olympus' Top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burft his Sides;
Ay, thought the God, are these your Tricks?
Why then old Plays deferve old Bricks;
And fince you're sparing of your Stuff,
Your Building shall be small enough.
He spoke, and grudging lent his Aid:
Th' experienc'd Bricks that knew their Trade,
(As being Bricks at fecond Hand,)
Now move, and now in Order stand.
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