He, in the old celeftial cant,

Confefs'd his flame, and fwore by Styx, Whate'er the would defire, to grant

But wife Ardelia knew his tricks.

Ovid had warn'd her, to beware

Of ftrolling gods, whofe ufual trade is, Under pretence of taking air,

To pick up fublunary ladies.

Howe'er, fhe gave no flat denial,
As having malice in her heart;
And was refolv'd upon a trial,

To cheat the god in his own art.
Hear my request, the virgin faid;
Let which I please of all the Nine
Attend, whene'er I want their aid,
Obey my call, and only mine.

By vow oblig'd, by paffion led,

The god could not refufe her prayer:
He way'd his wreath thrice o'er her head,,
Thrice mutter'd fomething to the air.

And now he thought to seize his due :-
But the the charm already tried.

Thalia heard the call, and flew
To wait at bright Ardelia's fide.
On fight of this celeftial prude,
Apollo thought it vain to stay;
Nor in her prefence durft be rude;
But made his leg, and went away.

He

He hop'd to find fome lucky hour,
When on their Queen the Mufes wait:
But Pallas owns Ardelia's power;
For vows divine are kept by Fate.

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

Let ftubborn pride poffefs thee long,
And be thou negligent of fame;

With every
Mufe to grace thy song,
May'st thou defpife a poet's name!
Of modeft poets thou be firft;

To filent fhades repeat thy verse,
Fill Fame and Echo almoft burst,
Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.
And laft, my vengeance to complete,
May'st thou defcend to take renown,
Prevail'd on by the thing you hate,
A Whig and one that wears a gown!

VAN BRUGH'S

HOUSE,

Built from the RUINS of WHITEHALL, 1706*.

N times of old, when time was young,

IN

And poets their own verfes fung,

A verfe would draw a ftone or beam,
That now would over-load a team;

* See the note, p. 46.

Lead

Lead them a dance of many a mile,

Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its different power:
Heroic ftrains could built a tower ;
Sonnets, or Elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a house about two stories
A Lyric 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 song:
For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grew a numerous race;
And, fhould they build as faft 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 pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
Premifing thus, in modern way,
The better half we have to fay:
Sing, Mufe, the house of poet Van
In higher ftrains than we began.
Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it)
Is both a herald and a poet;

No

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 atchievement, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice;
And, as a poet, he has skill

To build in fpeculation still.
Great Jove he cry'd, the art reftore
To build by verse as heretofore,
And make my Mufe the architect;
What palaces fhall we erect !
No longer fhall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in flames;
A pile fhall from its ashes rise,
Fit to invade or prop the skies.

Jove fmil'd, and, like a gentle god,
Confenting with the ufual nod,
Told Van, he knew his talent beft,
And left the choice to his own breast.
So Van refolv'd to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect supplies :
Takes a French play as lawful prize;
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would fmoke
And (like a wag set down to write)
Would whisper to himself, a bite.
Then, from this motley, mingled style,
Proceeded to erect his pile.

So

tricks?

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 jest:
Down from Olympus' top he flides,
Laughing as if he 'd burst his fides:
Ay, thought the God, are thefe your
Why then old plays deserve old bricks ;
And, fince you're fparing of your ftuff,
Your building fhall be small enough.
He fpake, and, grudging, lent his aid :
Th' experienc'd bricks, that knew their trade
(As being bricks at fecond-hand),

Now move, and now in order stand.

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 fcrubby 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 cost him under ground.
Two other acts, we may prefume,
Were spent in building each a room :
Thus far advanc'd, he made a fhift
To raise a roof with act the fifth.
The epilogue behind did frame
A place not decent here to name.

Now