And firft 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 fo
A Cellar next was dug below :
But this a Work fo hard was found,
Two Acts it coft him under Ground.
Two other Acts we may prefume
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 fee the Houfe of Brother Van :
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round,
But no fuch Houfe was to be found:
One asks the Watermen hard by,
Where may the Poet's Palace lie?
Another, of the Thames enquires,
If he has feen its gilded Spires?
At length they in the Rubbish fpy
A Thing resembling a Goose-Pye
Thither in hafte the Poets throng,
in filent Wonder long; Till one in Raptures thus began
To praise the Pile, and Buil der 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't make it ferve thee for a Tilt, Capacious Houfe! 'tis own'd by all, Thou'rt well contriv'd, tho' thou art fmall;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Ille
May lodge within thy fpacious Pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, art born again;
Born like a Phanix from the Flame,
But neither Bulk nor Shape the fame ;
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 Chymifts boast, they have a Pow'r
From the dead Ashes of a Flow'r,
Some faint Refemblance to produce;
But not the Virtue, Tafte, or Juice.
So modern Rhymers wifely blaft
The Poetry of Ages past,
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.
Written in the YEAR 1708.
HEN Mother Clud had rose from Play;
And call'd to take the Cards away;
Van faw, but feem'd not to regard,
How Mifs 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 Architecture:
He view'd the Edifice, and smil'd,
Vow'd it was pretty for a Child :
It was fo perfect in its Kind,
He kept the Model in his Mind.
BUT when he found the Boys at Play,
And faw them dabbling in their Clay;
He ftood behind a Stall to lurk,
And mark the Progrefs of their Work:
With true Delight obferv'd 'em 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 refolv'd a Houfe to build ;
A real Houfe, with Rooms and Stairs,
Five Times at least as big as theirs,
Taller than Mifs's by two Yards;
Not a fham Thing of Clay or Cards,
And fo he did; for in a while
up fuch a monstrous Pile,
That no two Chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the Ground:
Still at Whitehall it ftands in View,
Juft in the Place where first it grew
There all the little School-Boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.
FROM fuch deep Rudiments as thefe,
Van is become by due Degrees,
For building fam'd; and justly reckon'd
At Court, Vitruvius the Second.
No wonder; finice wife Authors fhow,
That, beft Foundations must be low.
And now the Dake has wifely ta'en him
To be his Architect 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 fee next Year,
A Mouse-trap Man chief Engineer.runett
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