V's HOUSE

Built from the RUINS of WHITE-HALL that was Burnt.

Written, 1703.

I

N Times of Old, when Time was Young,
And Poets their own Verfes fung,
A Verfe 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's;
Heroick Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnets, or Elogies to Chloris
Might raife 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 raife a Lodging for a Song.
For, Jove confider'd well the Cafe,
Obferv'd, they grew a num'rous Race.
And fhould they Build as fast as Write,
"Twould ruin Undertakers quite smo
This Evil, therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their Element;

On

On Earth, the God of Wealth was made
Sole Patron of the Building Trade,
Leaving the Wits the fpacious Air,
With Licence to build Caftles 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 House 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 fkill'd
In both Capacities, to Build.
As Herald, he can in a Day
Repair a Houfe gone to decay;
Or by Atchievement, Arms, Device,
Erect a new one in a trice.
And as a Poet, he has skill
To build in Speculation ftill.
Great Fove, he cry'd, the Art reftore,
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 Whiteball 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,

2 Ju

0

Steals

Stales thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke,
Not once fufpecting Fove would Smoak,
And (like a Wag fat down to write,
Would whifper 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 it beft
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.

****
aiz

?

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.
The Plot as yet lay deep, and fo
A Celler next 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 V

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 praife the Pile and builder V

THRICE happy Poet, who may trail
Thy Houfe about thee like a Snail;
Or harness'd to a Nag, at ease
Take Journies in it like a Chaife;
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 largeft 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.

Anno 1705.

A

S Maftive Dogs, in Modern Phrase, 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 fuits 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 underftood by Fame Befide the getting of a Name? But e'er fince Men invented Guns, A different way their Fancy runs:

T.