On Earth, the God of Wealth was made Sole Patron of the Building Trade, Leaving the Wits the fpacious 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 berter half we had to fay; Sing Mufe the Houfe of Poet V. In higher Strains than we began. V (or '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 fkill To build in Speculation ftill. Great Fove, he cry'd, the Art restore, To build by Verfe as heretofore, And make my Mufe the Architect; What Palaces fhall we Erect! No longer fhall forfaken Thames Lament his old Whitehall in Flames, A Pile fhall from its Afhes rife Fit to invade or prop the Skies. JOVE fmil'd, and like a gentle God, Confenting with the ufual Nod, Told V he knew his Talant beft, And left the Choice to his own Breaft So V refolv'd to write a Farce, But well perceiving Wit was fcarce, With Cunning that Defect fupplies, Takes a French Play as lawful Prize,
Stales thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke, Not once fufpecting Jove would Smoak, And (like a Wag fat down to write, Would whisper to himself A Bite. Then, from the motly mingled Stile Proceeded to erect his Pile:
So, Men of old, to gain Renown, did Build Babel with their Tongues confounded. Jove faw the Cheat, butthought
To turn the Matter to a Jeft;
Down from Olimpus Top he flides, Laughing, as if he he'd burft his Sides: Ay, thought the God, are thefe your Tricks? Why then old Plays deferve old Bricks, And fince you're iparing of your Stuff, Your Building fhall be small enough. He fpake, and grudging, lent his Aid; Th' experienc'd Bricks that khew their Trade,
(As being Bricks at fecond Hand,)
Now move, and now in Order ftand.
THE Building, as the Poet Writ,
Rofe in proportion to bis Wit:
And firft the Prologue built a Wall So wide as to encompass all.
The Scene a Wood produc'd no more Than a few ferubby Trees before. lay deep, and fo
The Plot was dug below!!
But this a Work fo bard was found. Two Acts it coft bim (under Ground. Two other Acts we may prefume Were spent in Building each a Room Thus far advanc'd, he made a fift To raife a Roof with Act the Fifth. The Epilogue bebind did frame,
A place not decent here to name.
Now Poets from all Quarters ran
To fee the Houfe of Brother Vy
Lookt high and low, walkt often round, But no fuch Houfe was to be found. One afks the Watermen hard by, Where may the Poets Palace lie? Another of the Thames enquires, If he had feen its gilded Spires. At length they in the Rubbish fpy A Thing refembling a Goofe Pye, Farther in heaft the Poets throng, And gaze in filent Wonder long, Till one in Raptures thus began. To praise the Pile and builder V THRICE happy Poet, who may 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 when e'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 Ifle
May lodge within thy fpacious Pile. Like Bacchus Thou, as Poets feign, Thy Mother burnt, art born again; Born like a Phoenix from the Flame, But neither Bulk, nor Shape the fame: As Animals of largest Size
Corrupt to Maggots, Worms and Flyes. A Type of Modern Wit and Stile, The rubbish of an Antient Pile,
So Chimifts boat they have a Pow'r, From the dead afhes of a Flow'r, Some faint Refemblance to produce, But not the Virtue, Tafte or Juice. So Modern Rhimers wifely Blaft The Poetry of Ages paft,
Which after they have overthrown, They from its Ruins build their own.
Salamander.
Out of Pliny's Nat, Hift. L. 10, C. 67. & L. 29. C. 4.
S Maftive Dogs, in Modern Phrafe, are Call'd Pompey, Scipio, and Cafar;
As Pyes and Daws are often fil'd
With Chriftian Nick-names, like aChild.
As we fay, Monfieur, to an Ape,
Without Offence to Human Shape; So Men have got from Bird and Brate Names that would beft their Natures fuit: The Lion, Eagle, Fox and Bear
Were Heroes Titles heretofore, Beftow'd as Hy'roglyphicks fit T'exprefs their Valour, Strength or Wit For, what is underflood by Fame Befide the getting of a Name? But e'er fince Men invented Guns, A different way their Fancy runs:
To paint a Hero, we enquire
For fomething that will conquer Fire. Would you defcribe Turenne or Trumpe, Think of a Bucket or a Pump.
Are these too low? then find out Grandeur, Call my Lord C a Salamander. 'Tis well-But fince we live among Detractors with an evil Tongue, Who may object against the Term, Pliny fhall prove what we affirm: Pliny fhall prove, and we'll apply, And I'll be judg'd by Standers-by. FIRST then, our Author has defin'd This Reptil, of the Serpent kind, With gaudy Coat, and fhining Train, But loathfom Spots his Body itain: Qut from fome Hole obfcure he flies, When Rains defcend, and Tempests rife, 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 feen a Snake in human Form, All ftain'd with Infamy and Vice, Leap from the Dunghill in a trice, Burnish and make a gaudy fhow, Become a General, Peer and Beau, Till Peace hath made the Sky Serene, Then fhrink into its Hole again.
All this we grant-why, then look yonder Sure that must be a Salamander ! FARTHER, we are by Pliny told, This Serpent is extreamly cold, vi So cold, that put it in the Fire, "Twill make the very Flames expire.. Befides, it fpews a filthy Froth (Whether thro Rage, or Love, or both)
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