His talk was now of Tythes and Dues,
Could fmoak his Pipe, and read the News;
Knew how to preach old Sermons next,
Vamp'd in the Preface and the Text;
At Chriftnings well could act his Part,
And had the Service all by Heart;
Wish'd Women might have Children fast,
And thought whofe Sow had farrow'd laft:
Against Diffenters would repine,
And ftood up firm for Right Divine::
Found his Head fill'd with many a Syftem,
But Claffick Authors
he ne'er mist 'em.
THUS having furbish'd up a Parfon,
Dame Baucis next, they plaid their Farce on:
Inftead of Home-fpun Coifs were feen,
Good Pinners edg'd with Colberteen:771
Her Petticoat transform'd apace,
Became black Sattin flounc'd with Lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down,yo ay
'Twas Madam, in her Grogram Gown, ow
Philemon was in great Surprize, a troli s
And hardly could believe his Eyes,.
Amaz'd to fee her look fo Prim,
And fhe admir'd as much at him. I'm' b'm
THUS, happy in their Change of Life,
Were feveral Years this Man and Wife, Ad
When on a Day, which provide their last, b
Difcourfing on old Stories paft, JEST O
They went by chance, amiilit their Talk,
To the Church-yard, to take a walk eine)
When Baucis haftily cry'd out, (bum by 2901
My dear, I fee your Forehead Sprout
Sprout, quoth the Man, What's this you tell us,
I hope, you don't believe me Jealous
But yet, methinks, I feel 'tis true; bio pard
And re'lly, yours is Budding too
Nay,
It feels as if 'twere taking Root.
now I cannot fir my Foot:
DESCRIPTION would but tire my Mufe,
In fhort, they both were turn'd to Yews.
Old Good-man Dobson of the Green
Remembers he the Trees' has feen
He'll talk of them from Noon to Night,
And goes with Folks to fhew the Sight.
On Sundays after Evening Prayer,
He gathers all the Parish there;
Points out the Place of either Tew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew.
Till once, a Parfon of our Town,
To mend his Barn, cut Baucis down
At which, 'tis hard to be believ'd,
How much the other Tree was griev'd,
Grew Scrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted:
So, the next Parfon ftubb'd and burnt it.
THEN Cupid did his Grandfire Jove intreat,
W
To form fame Beauty by a new Receipt,
Fove fent and found far in a Country Scene,
Truth, Innocence, Good Nature, Look ferene;
From which Ingredients, firft the dext'rous Boy
Pick'd the Demure, the Aukward, and the Coy;
The Graces from the Court did next provide
Breeding, and Wit, and Air, and decent Pride;
Thefe Venus cleans'd from ev'ry fpurious Grain
Of Nice, Coquet, Affected, Pert, and Vain.
Jove mix'd up all, and his best Clay imploy'd;
Then call'd the happy Compofition, Floyd.
HEN Mother Clud had rofe from Play,
And call'd to take the Cards away;
V faw, but feem'd not to regard,
How Mifs pick'd ev'ry painted Card
And bufie both with Hand and Eye,
Soon rear'd a Houfe two Story high;
V's Genius without Thought or Lecture,
Is hugely turn'd to Architecture.
He view'd the Edifice, and fmil'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 fkill'd,
And fo refolv'd a House to build;
A real Houfe, and Rooms and Stairs,
Five times, at leaft 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,
He built up fuch a monftrous Pile,
That no two Chair-men could be found,
Able to lift it from the Ground:
Sill at Whitehall it ftands in view,
Juft in the Place where firft it grew;
There all the little School-Boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.
FROM fuch deep Rudiments as thefe,
V is become by due Degrees,
For Building fam'd, and juftly reckon'd
At Court, Vitruvius the Second:
No wonder, fince wife Authors fhow,
That Beft Foundations must be Low;
And now the Duke has wifely ta'en him
To be his Architect at Blenheim':
But Raillery for once aprt,
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 Moufe-trap-Man, Chief Engineer.
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