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 grantBut 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.

"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: He 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 Pallas owns Ardelia's power:
For vows divine are kept by Fate.

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!"

VANBRUGH'S HOUSE,

BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT

1703.

In the preface to the Miscellanies, in which this lively satire first appeared, the author expresses some compunction for having written it. It does injustice to Vanbrugh, both as a poet and architect. The comedies of that celebrated dramatist afford excellent examples of light, easy, and natural dialogues; and were, as Cibber has recorded, less troublesome to the memory of the performers than those of any other dramatist. He died at the house in Whitehall (here ridiculed,) 26th March, 1726.

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 a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
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 licence 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 art 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,

* Sir John Vanbrugh at that time held the office of Clarencieux king of arms, which he afterwards disposed of.

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 ; *
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once suspecting Jove would smoke;
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 men of old, to gain renown, did
Build Babel with their tongues confounded.
Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best
To turn the matter to a jest;

Down from Olympus' top he slides,
Laughing as if he'd burst his sides:

Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks?
Why then old plays deserve old bricks;
And since you're sparing of

your stuff,

Your building shall be small enough.

He spake, and grudging, lent his aid;

Th' experienced bricks, that knew their trade,

(As being bricks at second hand,)

Now move, and now in order stand.

The building, as the Poet writ,

Rose in proportion to his wit-
And first the prologue built a wall;
So wide as to encompass all.

The scene, a wood, produced no more
Than a few scrubby trees before.
The plot as yet lay deep; and so
A cellar next was dug below;

* Several of Vanbrugh's plays are taken from Moliere.