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THE Building, as the Poet writ,
Rofe in Proportion to his Wit:
And first the Prologue built a Wall,
So wide as to encompass all.

The Scene, a Wood, produc'd no more
Than a few scrubby Trees before.
The Plot as yet lay deep, and fo
A Cellar next was dug below:
But this a Work fo hard was found,
Two Acts it coft him under Ground:
Two other Acts we may prefume
Were spent, in building each a Room:
Thus far advanc'd, he made a Shift
To raise a Roof with Act the Fift.
The Epilogue behind, did frame
A Place, not decent here to name.

Now Poets from all Quarters ran To fee the Houfe of Brother Van: Look'd high and low, walk'd often round, But no fuch Houfe was to be found One asks the Watermen hard by, Where may the Poet's Palace lie? Another, of the Thames enquires, If he hath feen its gilded Spires! At length they in the Rubbish spy A Thing resembling a Goose-Pye : Thither in hafte the Poets throng, And gaze in filent Wonder long;

Till one in Raptures thus began
To praise the Pile, and Builder Van.

THRICE happy Poet, who may trail
Thy House about thee, like a Snail;
Or harness'd to a Nag, at Ease,
Take Journeys in it like a Chaise;
Or, in a Boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Can't make it ferve thee for a Tilt.
Capacious House! 'Tis own'd by all,
Thou'rt well contriv'd, tho' thou art fmall;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Inle

May lodge within thy fpacious Pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,

Thy Mother burnt, art born again;
Born like a Phenix from the Flame;
But neither Bulk nor Shape the fame;
As Animals of largest Size

Corrupt to Maggots, Worms, and Flies.
A Type of Modern Wit and Style,
The Rubbish of an ancient Pile.

So Chymifts boaft, they have a Pow'r
From the dead Afhes of a Flow'r,
Some faint Resemblance to produce;
But not the Virtue, Tafte, or Juice.
So modern Rhymers wifely blast
The Poetry of Ages past,

Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.

The

The Hiftory of VANBRUG's House.

Written in the Year 1708.

WHE

HEN Mother Clud had rofe from Play; And call'd to take the Cards away; Van faw, but feem'd not to regard, How Mifs pick'd ev'ry painted Card; And bufy both with Hand and Eye, Soon rear'd a House two Stories high: Van's Genius, without Thought or Lecture, Is hugely turn'd on 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 stood behind a Stall to lurk,
And mark the Progress 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

Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And fo refolv'd a Houfe to build ;
A real Houfe, with Rooms and Stairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs,
Taller than Mis'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 Chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the Ground:
Still at Whiteball it stands in View,
Juft in the Place, where first it grew:
There all the little School-boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.

FROM fuch deep Rudiments as thefe,
Van is become by due Degrees,
For building fam'd; and juftly reckon'd
At Court, Vitruvius the Second.

No Wonder; fince wife Authors show,
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 apart,

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.

A Defcription of a CITY SHOWE r.

C

Written in the Year 1712.

AREFUL Obfervers may foretel the Hour (By fure Prognosticks) when to dread a Show'r. While Rain depends, the penfive Cat gives o'er Her Frolicks, and pursues her Tail no more. Returning home at Night you find the Sink Strike your offended Senfe with double Stink. you be wife, then go not far to dine,

If

You spend in Coach-hire more than fave in Wine.
A coming Show'r your fhooting Corns prefage;
Old Aches throb, your hollow Tooth will rage:
Saunt'ring in Coffee-Houfe is Dulman feen;
He damns the Climate, and complains of Spleen.

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MEAN while the South, rifing with dabbled
Wings,

A fable Cloud athwart the Welkin flings;
That fwill'd more Liquor than it could contain,
And like a Drunkard gives it up again.
Brifk Sufan whips her Linnen from the Rope,
While the first drizzling Show'r is born aflope:"

Such

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