And now, the ladies all are bent To try the great experiment, Ambitious of a regent's heart, Spread all their charms to catch a f―; Watching the first unsavoury wind, Some ply before, and some behind. My lord, on fire amidst the dames, F--ts like a laurel in the flames. The fair approach the speaking part, To try the backway to his heart: For, as when we a gun discharge, Although the bore be ne'er so large, Before the flame from muzzle burst, Just at the breech it flashes first ; So from my lord his passion broke, He f―d first, and then he spoke.

The ladies vanish d in the smother, To confer notes with one another; And now they all agreed to name Whom each one thought the happy dame. Quoth Neal, "Whate'er the rest may think, I'm sure 'twas I, that smelt the stink." "You smell the stink! by G-, you Iye," Quoth Ross," for I'll be sworn 'twas I." Ladies," quoth Levens," pray forbear: Let's not fall out; we all had share; And, by the most I can discover, My lord's an universal lover."

DESCRIPTION

OF

A SALAMANDER. 1706.

Pliny, Nat. Hist. lib. x. c. 67. lib. xxix. c. 4.

As mastiff dogs in modern phrase are
Call'd Pompey, Scipio, and Cæsar;
As pyes and daws are often styl'd
With Christian nicknames, like a child;
As we say monsieur to an ape,
Without offence to human shape;
So men have got, from bird and brute,
Names that would best their natures suit.
The lion, eagle, fox, and boar,
Were heroes titles heretofore,
Bestow'd as hieroglyphics fit

To show their valour, strength, or wit:
For what is understood by fame,
Besides the getting of a name?
But e'er since men invented guns,
A different way their fancy runs :

To paint a hero, we inquire

For something that will conquer fire.
Would you describe Turenne or Trump?
Think of a bucket or a pump.

Are these too low-then find out grander,
Call my lord Cutts a Salamander.
'Tis well;-but, since we live among
Detractors with an evil tongue,
Who may object against the term,
Pliny shall prove what we affirm :
Pliny shall prove, and we'll apply,
And 'll be judg'd by standers-by.
First, then, our author has defin'd
This reptile of the serpent kind,
With gaudy coat and shining train;
But loathsome spots his body stain:

Out from some hole obscure he flies, When rains descend, and tempests rise, Till the Sun clears the air; and then Crawls back neglected to his den.

So, when the war has rais'd a storm, I've seen a snake n human form, All stain'd with infamy and vice, Leap from the dunghill in a trice, Burnish, and make a gaudy show, Become a general, peer, and beau, Till peace has made the sky serene; Then shrink into its hole again. "All this we grant"-"Way then look yonder: Sure that must be a Salamander !" Farther we are by Pliny told, This serpent is extremely cold; So cold, that, put it in the fire, 'Twill make the very flames expire: Besides, it spues a filthy froth (Whether through rage or lust, or both) Of matter purulent and white, Which, happening on the skin to light, And there corrupting to a wound, Spreads leprosy and baldness round.

So have I seen a batter'd beau,

By age and claps grown cold as snow,
Whose breath or touch, where-e'er he came,
Blew out love's torch, or chill'd the flame:
And should some nymph, who ne'er was crue!,
Like Charlton cheap, or fam'd Du-Ruel,
Receive the filth which he ejects,
She soon would find the same effects
Her tainted carcase to pursue,

As from the Salamander's spue;
A dismal shedding of her locks,
And, no leprosy, a pox,
"Then I'll appeal to each by-stander,
If this be not a Salamander?"

TO THE

EARL OF PETERBOROW,

WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN.

MORDANTO fills the trump of fame,
The Christian worlds his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crouded with his name.

In journies he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast;

Knows every prince in Europe's face, Flies like a squib from place to place, And travels not, but runs a race.

From Paris gazette à-la-main, This day arriv'd, without his train, Mordanto in a week from Spain.

A messenger comes all a-reck, Mordanto at Madrid to seek ; He left the town above a week.

Next day the post-boy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn : Mordanto 's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone;

The roads are with her followers strown; This breaks a girth and that a bone.

THE queen has lately lost a part
Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH heart;
For want of which by way of botch,
She piec'd it up again with scOTCH.
Blest revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states!
See how the double nation lies;
Like a rich coat with skirts of frize:
As if a man, in making posies,
Should bundle thistles up with roses.
Who ever yet a union saw
Of kingdoms without faith or law?
Henceforward let no statesman dare
A kingdom to a ship compare;
Lest he should call our commonweal
A vessel with a double keel:

Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd,
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward de,
The pilot knew not how to guide.
So tossing faction will o'erwhelm
Our crazy double-bottom'd realm.

ON

MRS. BIDDY FLOYD:

OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY 1.

WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some beauty by a new receipt,
Jove sent, and found far in a country-scene
Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene :
From which ingredients first the dextrous boy
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the
coy.
The graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus cleans from every spurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain.
Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy composition Floyd.

1 The motto on queen Anne's coronation medal,

2 An elegant Latin version of this little poem is in the sixth volume of Dryden's Miscellanies.

APOLLO OUTWITTED,

TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. FINCH, AFTERWARDS COUNTESS OF WINCHELSEA, UNDER HER NAME OF

ARDELIA.

PHOEBUS, now shortening every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld a lovely maid,
Attending on a royal dame.
The god laid down his feeble rays,

Then lighted from his glittering coach; But fene'd his head with his own bays, Before he durst the nymph approach. Under those sacred leaves, secure

From common lightning of the skies, He fondly thought he might endure The flashes of Ardelia's eyes.

The nymph, who oft' had read in books Of that bright god whom bards invoke, Soon knew Apollo by his looks,

And guess'd his business ere he spoke. He, in the old celestial cant,

Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx, Whate'er she would desire, to grantBut wise Ardelia knew his tricks.

Ovid had warn'd her, to beware

Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, Under pretence of taking air,

To pick up sublunary ladies. Howe'er, she gave no flat denial, As having malice in her heart; And was resolv'd upon a trial,

To cheat the god in his own art. "Hear my request," the virgin said; "Let which I please of all the Nine Attend, whene er I want their aid, Obey my call, and only mine." By vow oblig'd, by passion led,

The god could not refuse her prayer: He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, Thrice mutter'd something to the air. And now he thought to seize his due: But she the charm already tried. Thalia heard the call, and flew

To wait at bright Ardelia's side. On sight of this celestial prude,

Apollo thought it vain to stay;
Nor in her presence durst be rude;

But made his leg, and went away.
He hop'd to find some lucky hour,
When on their queen the Muses wait:
But Pallas owns Ardelia's power;

For vows divine are kept by Fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke :

Deceitful nymph! I see thy art; And, though I can't my gift revoke, I'll disappoint its nobler part. "Let stubborn pride possess thee long, And be thou negligent of fame; With every Muse to grace thy song, May'st thou despise a poet's name! "Of modest poets thou be first;

To silent shades repeat thy verse, Till Fame and Echo almost burst, Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.

"And last, my vengeance to complete, May'st thou descend to take renown, Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,

A Whig! and one that wears a gown!"

VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,

BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL, 1706 1.

In times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung.
A verse would draw a stone or beam,
That now would over-load 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;
Alyric 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,
Observ'd they grew a numerous race;
And, should they build as fast as write,
"Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wisely chang'd 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 conceiv'd, 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 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 has skill

To build in speculation still.

"Great Jove!" he cry'd," 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 smil'd, 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 resolv'd to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect supplies;
Takes a French play as lawful prize;

See the note in the next page.

;

Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not one suspecting Jove would smoke
And (like a wag set down to write)
Would whisper to himself, a bite ;
Then, from this motley, mingled style,
Proceeded to erect his pile.

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 tricks?
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;
Th' experienc'd 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 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 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 advanc'd, he made a shift
To raise a roof with Act the Fifth.
The Epilogue behind did frame
A place not decent here to name.

Now poets from all quarters ran
To see the house of brother Van;
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 inquires,
If he has 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 wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praise the pile and builder Van :
"Thrice Lappy poet! who may'st trail
Thy house about thee like a snail;
Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease
Take journies in it like a chaise;
Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt,
Canst make it serve thee for a tilt!
Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all

Thou 'rt well contriv'd, though thou art small:
For every wit in Britain's isle

May lodge within thy spacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phenix 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 power
From the dead ashes of a flower

Some faint resemblance to produce,
But not the virtue, taste, or juice:
So modern rhymers wisely blast
The poetry of ages past;
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its ruins build their own.

TWO RIDDLES. 1707 1.

I. ON A FAN.

FROM India's burning clime I'm brought,
With cooling gales like Zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris when she paints the sky,
Can show more different hue than I:
Nor can she change her form so fast;
I'm now a sail, and now a mast:
I here am red, and there am green;
A beggar there, and here a queen,
I sometimes live in house of hair,
And oft' in hand of lady fair:

I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold:
Say what I am then, if you can,

And find the rhyme, and you 're the man.

ANSWER.

YOUR house of hair, and lady's hand, At first did put me to a stand. I have it now-'tis plain enoughYour hairy business is a muff. Your engine fraught with cooling gales, At once so like your masts and sails; Your thing of various shape and hue, Must be some painted toy, I knew: And for the rhyme to you 're the man, What fits it better than a fan?

II. ON A BEAU.

I'M wealthy and poor,
I'm empty and full,
I'm humble and proud,

I'n witty and dull.

I'm foul, and yet fair;

I'm old, and yet young:

I lie with Moll K-r,

And toast Mrs.

ANSWER, BY MR. FR.

In rigging he 's rich, though in pocket he 's poor; He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits; Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore; He's a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits. Of wisdom he 's empty, but full of conceit; He paints and perfumes, while he rots with the scab; [gait; 'Tis a Beau you may swear by his sense and his He boasts of a beauty, and lies with a drab.

1 Originally communicated by Swift to Oldisworth, who published them in The Muses Mercury, 1709. Some other amusements of the same nature, written about 1724, may be seen in some subsequent pages of this volume,

WHEN

THE HISTORY OF VANBRUGH'S HOUSE 1.

HEN mother Clud had rose from play, And call'd to take the cards away, Van saw, but seein❜d not to regard, How Miss pick'd every painted card, And, busy both with hand and eye, Soon rear'd a house two stories high. Van's genius, without thought or lecture, Is hugely turn'd to architecture: He view'd the edifice, and smil'd, Vow dit 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 them all Raking up mud to build a wall. The plan he much admir'd, and took The model in his table-book ; 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 up such a monstrous pile, That no two chairmen could be found Able to lift it from the ground. Still at Whitehall 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 architect at Blenheim.

But, raillery for once apart,

If this rule holds in every 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!

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

ON THE EVER LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES
IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1703.
IMITATED FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF OVID.

Is ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.

1 Dr.Swift made sir John Vanbrugh ample amends for the pointed raillery of this and the poem in the preceding page, in the Preface to his Miscellanies. 1727. N.

It happen'd on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a sinall village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.

Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last!
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
'Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz`d;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-"What ar't!"
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand :
"Good folks you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
"No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd ;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes,"

They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft
The roof began to mount a oft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.

The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below:

Ir vain; for a superior force,
Apply'd at bottom, stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.

A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower :

The flier, though 't had leaden feet,

Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't ; But, slacken'd by some secret power,

Now hardly moves an inch an hour.

The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, size, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, describe
The heraldry of every tribe 1.

A beadstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.

The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desir'd their host
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease?
Make me the parson, if you please."

He spoke and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassoc grew,
And both assum'd a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last ;
Against dissenters would repine,

And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system :
But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ;

1 The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob.