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TO MRS. BIDDY FLOYD.

Or, the receipt to form a beauty, 1708. WHEN Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: These Venus cleans from every spurious grain Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd: Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD

THE REVERSE

(TO SWIFT'S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD);
OR MRS. CLUDD.

VENUS one day, as story goes,
But for what reason no man knows,
In sullen mood and grave deport,
Trudged it away to Jove's high court;
And there his godship did entreat
To look out for his best receipt:
And make a monster strange and odd,
Abhorr'd by man and every god.
Jove, ever kind to all the fair,
Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer,
Straight ope'd 'scrutoire, and forth he took
A neatly-bound and well-gilt book;
Sure sign that nothing enter'd there
But what was very choice and rare.
Scarce had he turn'd a page or two,
It might be more, for aught I knew;
But, be the matter more or less,
'Mong friends 'twill break no squares
Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he,
Here's one will fit you to a T.
But, as the writing doth prescribe,
"Tis fit the ingredients we provide.
Away he went, and search'd the stews,
And every street about the Mews;
Diseases, impudence, and lies,
Are found and trought him in a trice.
From Hackney then he did provide
A clumsy air and awkward pride;
From lady's toilet next he brought

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These Jove put in an old close-stool,
And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.
But now came on his greatest care,
Of what he should his paste prepare;
For common clay or finer mould
Was much too good such stuff to hold.
At last he wisely thought on mud;
So raised it up, and call'd it- Cludd.
With this, the lady, well content,
Low curtsied, and away she went.

APOLLO OUTWITTED.

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. FINCH.'
Under her name of Ardelia.

PHOEBUS, now shortening every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld a lovely maid
Attending on a royal dame.

The god laid down his feeble rays,

Then lighted from his glittering coach; But fenced his head with his own bays Before he durst the nymph approach.

Under those sacred leaves, secure

From common lightning of the skies,
Ile fondly thought he might endure
The flashes of Ardelia's eyes.

The nymph, who oft had read in books
Of that bright god whom bards invoke,
Soon knew Apollo by his looks,

And guess'd his business ere he spoke.

He, in the old celestial cant,

Confess'd his flame, and swore by Styx,
Whate'er she would desire, to grant-
But wise Ardelia knew his tricks.

Ovid had warn'd her to beware

Of strolling gods, whose usual trade is, Under pretence of taking air,

To pick up sublunary ladies.

Howe'er, she gave no flat denial,

As having malice in her heart;
And was resolved upon a trial,

To cheat the god in his own art.

'Afterwards countess of Winchelsea.

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By now shliri, by passion lei

The god sould not reuse her prayer: He waved his vread times ir her head, Thrice mucer i something a the air.

And now he thought a seize is fue:

But she the charm already med: Thalla heard the call and few

To wait at brigno Ardella's side.

On sight of this celestial prude.

Apollo thought it vain a sty: Nor in her presence durst be rude.

Bus made his leg and went away. He hoped to ind some lucky boar,

When on their queen the Mases wait; Bat Pallas owns Ariella's power:

For vows divine are kept by Fate.

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Then, fall of rare, Apollo spoke:
Deceitful nymph! I see thy art;
And though I can't my gift revoke,
I'll disappoint its nobler part.

"Let stubborn pride possess thee long, And be thou negligent of fame: With every Muse to grace thy song,

May'st thou despise a poet's name! "Of modest poets be thou first:

To silent shades repeat thy verse, Till Fame and Echo almost burst,

Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. "And last, my vengeance to complete,

May'st thou descend to take renown, Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,

A Whig! and one that wears a gown!”

VANBRUGII'S HOUSE,

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt, 1703.
In times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,
A verse would draw a stone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many mile,

Each number had its different power;
Heroic strains could build a tower;
Sonnets or elegies to Chloris
Might raise a house about two stories;
A lyric ode would slate; a catch
Would tile; an epigram would thatch.

But, to their own or landlord's cost,
Now poets feel this art is lost.
Not one of all our tuneful throng
Can raise a lodging for a song.
For Jove consider'd well the case,
Observed they grew a numerous race;
And should they build as fast as write,
"Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil, therefore, to prevent,
He wisely changed their element:
On earth the god of wealth was made
Sole patron of the building trade;
Leaving the wits the spacious air,
With license to build castles there:
And 'tis conceived their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
Premising thus, in modern way,
The better half we have to say;
Sing, Muse, 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 achievements, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice;

And as a poet, he has skill

To build in speculation still. "Great Jove!" he cried, "the a:t restore

To build by verse as heretofore,
And make my Muse the architect;
What palaces shall we erect!
No longer shall forsaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in flames;
A pile shall from its ashes rise,
Fit to invade or prop the skies."

Jove smiled, and, like a gentle god,
Consenting with the usual nod,
Told Van, he knew his talent best,
And left the choice to his own breast.
So Van resolved to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect supplies,
Takes a French play as lawful prize;

"Hear my request," the virgin said;
"Let which I please of all the Nine
Attend whene'er I want their aid,

Obey my call, and only mine."

By vow obliged, by passion led,

The god could not refuse her prayer:
Ile waved his wreath thrice o'er her head,
Thrice mutter'd something to the air.

And now he thought to seize his due;

But she the charm already tried: Thalia heard the call, and flew

To wait at bright Ardelia's side.

On sight of this celestial prude,

Apollo thought it vain to stay; Nor in her presence durst be rude,

But made his leg and went away.

He hoped to find some lucky hour,

When on their queen the Muses wait; But Palias owns Ardelia's power:

For vows divine are kept by Fate.

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Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke:
Deceitful nymph! I see thy art;
And though I can't my gift revoke,
I'll disappoint its nobler part.

"Let stubborn pride possess thee long, And be thou negligent of fame; With every Muse to grace thy song,

May'st thou despise a poet's name! "Of modest poets be thou first;

To silent shades repeat thy verse, Till Fame and Echo almost burst,

Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. "And last, my vengeance to complete,

May'st thou descend to take renown, Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,

A Whig! and one that wears a gown!"

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VANBRUGI'S HOUSE,

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt, 1703.

IN times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verses sung,
A verse would draw a stone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many mile,

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