When on a day, which prov'd their laft,
Difcourfing o'er old ftories paft;
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard, to fetch a walk;
When Baucis haftily cry'd out, I
My dear, I fee your forehead fprout!
Sprout, quoth the man, what's this you tell us
I hope, you don't believe me jealous :
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really, yours is budding too
Nay, now I cannot fir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
DESCRIPTION Would but tire my mufe: In short they both were turn'd to Yews.
OLD goodman Dobson of the green,
Remembers he the trees hath feen;
He'll talk of them from noon to night,
And goes with folks,, to fhew the fight
On Sundays, after evening pray'r,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either Yew
Here Baucis, there Philemon grew:
"Till once a Parson 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 Parson stubb'd and burnt it.
Built from the Ruins of Whitehall, that was burnt.
Written in the Year 1708.
N times of old, when time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,
A verfe could draw a ftone or beam,
That now would over-load a team;
Lead 'em a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its diff'rent pow'r;
Heroick ftrains could build a tow'r ;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris
Might raise a house about two ftories;
A lyrick ode would flate; 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 fong.
For Jove confider'd well the cafe
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous race,
And should they build as fast as write,
"Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their element :
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 pretenče
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
PREMISING thus in modern way,
The better half we have to fay;
Sing, Mufe, the house of poet Van,
In higher strains than we began.
VAN, (for '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 atchievements, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice.
And, as a poet, he hath skill
To build in speculation still.
Great Jeve! he cry'd, the art restore,
To build by verse, as heretofore,
And make my muse the architect;
What palaces fhall we erect !
No longer shall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in flames:
A pile fhall from its afhes rise,
Fit to invade, or prop the skies.
JOVE fmil'd, and like a gentle God,
Confenting with his ufual nod,
Told Van, he knew his talent best,
And left the choice to his own breast.
So Van refolved to write a farce;
But well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect fupplies;
Takes a French play as lawful prize;
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would smoke;
And, like a wag, fat down to write,
Would whisper to himself, a bite.
Then from this motly mingled ftyle
Proceeded to erect his pile.
So men of old, to gain renown, did
Build Babel, with their tongues confounded.
Jove faw the cheat, but thought it best
To turn the matter to a jeft:
Down from Olympus top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burft his fides;
Ay, thought the God, are these your tricks?
Why then old plays deferve old Bricks ;
And, fince your sparing of your stuff,
Your building shall be small enough.
He fpake, and grudging, lent his aid:
Th' experienc'd bricks that knew their trade,
(As being bricks at second hand),
Now move, and now in order stand.
THE building, as the poet writ
Rofe in proportion to his wit:
And firft the prologue built a wall,
So wide as to encompafs 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 fifth.
The epilogue behind did frame
A place, not decent here to name.
Now Poets from all quarters ran
To fee the house 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 inquires,
If he hath feen its gilded fpires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing resembling a goofe-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 fnail;
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