The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
These Venus cleans from every fpurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain.
Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy Compofition Floyd.
To the Honourable Mrs. FINCH, afterwards Countess of WINCHELSEA, 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 fenc'd his head with his own bays,
Before he durft the nymph approach.
Under thofe facred leaves, fecure
From common lightning of the skies,
He 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 celeftial cant,
Confefs'd his flame, and fwore by Styx, Whate'er fhe would defire, to grant
But wife Ardelia knew his tricks.
Ovid had warn'd her, to beware
Of strolling 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 said; 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 refuse her prayer :
He wav'd his wreath thrice o'er her head,
Thrice mutter'd fomething to the air.
And now he thought to feize 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 celestial prude,
Apollo thought it vain to stay
Nor in her prefence durft be rude;
But made his leg, and went away.
APOLLO OUTWITTED.
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 my 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'ft thou defpise a poet's name!
Of modeft poets thou be first ;
To filent fhades repeat thy verfe,
Till Fame and Echo almost burst,
Yet hardly dare one line rehearse.
And last, 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!
Built from the RUINS of WHITEHALL, 1706
IN times of old, when time was young,
And poets their own verses fung,
A verfe would draw a ftone or beam,.
That now would over-load a team ;;
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 houfe about two ftories;
A Lyric 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 raise a lodging for a song:
For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grew à numerous race;
And, fhould 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 caffles 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 say:
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 wonder then if nicely skill'd
In both capacities to build.
As herald, he can in a day
Repair a boufe 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 verfe as heretofore,
And make my Muse the architect;
What palaces fhall we erect !
No longer fhall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall 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 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 fupplies :
Takes a French play as lawful prize;
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would smoke z
And (like a wag fet down to write)
Would whisper to himfelf, a bite.
Then, from this motley, mingled ftyle,
Proceeded to erect his pile.
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