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,

Steals

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;

it beft

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!!

A Celler next.

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.

117

3

Now Poets from all Quarters ran

TA

32

To fee the Houfe of Brother Vy

Lookt

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.

THE

THE

DESCRIPTION

OF A

Salamander.

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

A

Anno 1705.

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:

T.

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)

T

Of