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V------'S HOUSE

Built from the RUINS of WHITH-HALL that

was Burnt.

Written, 1703.


N Times of Old, when Time was young,

And Poets their own Verses sung,
A Verse could draw a Stone or Beam,

That now would overload 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;
Heroick Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnets, or Elogies to Chloris
Might raise a Houle about two Stories;
A Lyrick Ode would Slate ; 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, fove consider'd well the Cafe,
Observ’d, they grew a num'rous Raçe.
And should they Build as fast as Writeg
'Twould ruin Undertakers quite su
This Evil, therefore to prevent,
He wisely chang'd their Element :

On 04

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 berter half we had to say;
Sing Muse the House of Poet v
In higher Strains than we began.

(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 Houfe gone to decay ;
Or by Atcbievement, Arms, Device,
Ereet a new one in a trice.
And as a Poet, he has skill
To build in Speculation still.
Great Fove, 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 Whiteball in Flames,
A Pile shall from its Alhes rise
Fit to invade or prop the Skies.

JOVE smil'd, and like a gentle God,
Confenting with the usual Nod,
Told V_ he knew his Talant beft,
And left the Choice to his own Breaft
So Vrefolv'd to write a Farce,
But well perceiving Wit was scarce,
With Cunning that Defeet supplies,
Takes a French Play as lawful Prize,


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Stales thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke,
Not once suspecting Fove would Smoak,
And (like a Wag lat 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 saw the Cheat, butthought it beft

To turn the Matter to a Jest;
Down from Olimpus Top he sides,
Laughing; "as if he he'd burft his Sides :
Ay, thought the God, are these your Tricks?
Why then old Plays deserve old Bricks,
And since you're i paring of your Stuff,
Your Building shall be small enough.
He spake, and grudging, lent his Aid;
Th' experienc'd Bricks that khew their Trade,
(As being Bricks at second Hand,
Now move, and now in Order ftand.

THE Building, as the Poet Writ,
Rose in proportion to bis Wit:
And first the Prologue built a Wall:
So wide as to encompass all.
The Scene a Wóód produc'd no more
Than a few fetubby Trees before.

.. ti
The Plot as get lay deep, and so
A Celler next. was dug below :!
But this a Work fo bard was

Iwo Afts it coft bim(under Ground.
Two other arts we may presume
Were spent in Building each a Room;
Thus far advanc'd, he made a jift
To raise a Roof with let the Fifth."
The Epilogue bebind did frame,
A place not decewt bere to name.

Now Poets from all Quarters rin
To see the House of Brother V


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Lookt high and low, walkt often round,
But no such House was to be found;
One asks the Watermen hard by,


the Poets Palace lie?
Another of the Thames enquires,
If he had seen its gilded Spires.
At length they in the Rubbish spy
A Thing resembling a Goose Pye,
Farther in heast 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 the like a Snail i
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 serve thee for a Tilt.
Capacious House! 'tis own’d by all
Thou’rt well contriv'd, tho' thou art small

For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Inle,
May lodge within thý spacious Pile.
Like Bacchus Thou, aš Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, art born again;
Born like a Phoenix from the Flame,
But neither Bulk, nor Shape the same:
As Animals of largest Size
Corrupt ro 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 ashes of a Flow'r,
Some faint Resemblance to produce,
but not the Virtue, Taste or Juice,
So Modern Rhimers wisely Blaft
The Poetry of Ages paft,
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.






Out of Pliny's Nat, Hift. L. 10. C. 67. & L. 29. C. 4.

Anno 1705.


S Maftive Dogs, in Modern Phrase, are
Callid Pompey, Scipio, and Cafar;
As Pyes and Daws are often tild

With Christian Nick-names, like a Child;
As we say, 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,
Bestow'd as Hy'roglyphicks fit

T express their Valour, Strength or Wit
For, what is underftood by Famo
Befide the getting of a Name?
But e'er fince Men invented Guns,
A different way their Fancy runs :


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