Imatges de pÓgina

The Building, as the Poet writ,
Rofe in Proportion to his Wit:
And first the Prologue built a Wall,
So wide as to encompass all.
The Scene, a Wood, produc'd 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 fo 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 advanc'd, he made a Shift
To raise a Roof with Act the Fift.
The Epilogue behind, did frame
A Place, not decent here to name.

Now Poets from all Quarters ran To see the House of Brother Pan: Look'd high and low, walk'd often round, But no such House was to be found One asks the Watermen hard by, Where may the Poet's Palace lie? Another, of the Thames enquires, If he hath seen its gilded Spires! At length they in the Rubbish spy A Thing resembling a Goose-Pye ; Thither in haste the Poets throng, And gaze

in silent Wander long;

Till one in Raptures thus began
To praise the Pile, and Builder Van.

Thrice happy Poet, who may trail
Thy House about thee, like a Snail
Or harness'd to a Nag, at Ease,
Take Journeys in it like a Chaise ;
Or, in a Boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Can'st make it serve thee for a Tilt.
Capacious House ! 'Tis own'd by all,
Thou’rt well contriv'd, thoʻ thou art small;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Ille
May lodge within thy spacious Pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, art born again ;
Born like a Pbænix from the Flame
But neither Bulk nor Shape the same;
As Animals of largest Size
Corrupt to Maggots, Worms, and Flies.
A Type of Modern Wit and Style,
The Rubbish of an ancient Pile.
So Chymists boast, they have a Pow'r
From the dead Ashes of a Flow'r,
Some faint Resemblance to produce ;
But not the Virtue, Tafte, or Juice.
So modern Rhymers wisely blast
The Poetry of Ages past,
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.


The History of VAN BRUG's House.

Written in the Year 1708.


HEN Mother Clud had rose from Play;

And call'd to take the Cards away ;
Van faw, but seem'd not to regard,
How Miss pick'd ev'ry painted Card ;
And bufy both with Hand and Eye,
Soon rear'd a House two Stories high :
Van's Genius, without Thought or Lecture,
Is hugely turn'd on Architeature:
He view'd the Edifice, and smild,
Vow'd it was pretty for a Child :
It was so perfect in its kind,
He kept the Model in his Mind.

But, when he found the Boys at Play,
And saw them dabbling in their Clay ;
He stood behind a Stall to lurk,
And mark the Progress of their Work:
With true Delight observ'd 'em all
Raking up Mud, to build a Wall:
The Plan he much admir'd, and took
The Model in his Table-Book ;


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Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And so resolv'd a House to build ;
A real House, with Rooms and Stairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs,
Taller than Miss's by two Yards ;
Not a sham Thing of Clay or Cards.
And so he did; for in a while
He built


such a monstrous Pile,
That no two Chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the Ground :
Still at Wbiteball it stands in View,
Just in the Place, where first it grew :
There all the little School-boys run,
Envying to see themselves out-done.

From such deep Rudiments as these, Van is become by due Degrees, For building fam’d; and justly reckon'd At Court, Vitruvius the Second. No Wonder ; since wise Authors show, That, best Foundations must be low. And now the Duke has wisely ta’en him To be his ArchiteEt at Blenheim. But Raillery for once apart, If this Rule holds in ev'ry Art; Or if his Grace were no more skill'd in The Art of battering Walls than Building; We might expect to see next Year A Mouse-trap Man chief Engineer.

A Description of a CITY SHOWER.

Written in the Year 1712.

AREFUL Observers may foretel the Hour

(By sure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show's. While Rain depends, the pensive Cat gives o’er Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more. Returning home at Night you find the Sink Strike your offended Sense with double Stink. If

you be wise, then go not far to dine, You spend in Coach-hire more than save in Wine. A coming Show'r your shooting Corns presage ; Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage: Saunt'ring in Coffee-House is Dulman feen; He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

MEAN while the South, rising with dabbled

A sable Cloud athwart the Welkin Aings;
That swilld more Liquor than it could contain,
And like a Drunkard gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her Linnen from the Rope,
While the first drizzling Show'r is born alope :

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