With bead reclining on his fhoulder,
He deals and hears myfterious chat,
While every ignorant beholder

Afks of his neighbour, Who is that?
With this he put up to my lord,

The courtiers kept their distance due,
He twitch'd his fleeve, and ftole a word;
Then to a corner both withdrew.
Imagine now, my Lord and Bush
Whispering in junto moft profound,
Like good king Phyz and good king Ufh,
While all the reft food gaping round.
At length a fpark not too well bred,
Of forward face and ear acute,
Advanc'd on tiptoe, lean'd his head,
To over-hear the grand difpute:
To learn what Northern kings defgn,
Or from Whitehall fome new exprefs,
Papifts difarm'd, or fall of coin:

For fure (thought he) it can't be lefs.
My lord, faid Bush, a friend and I,
Difguis'd in two old thread-bare coats,
Ere morning's dawn, ftole out to spy
How markets went for hay and oats.
With that he draws two handfuls out,
The one was oats, the other hay;
Puts this to 's excellency's fnout,

And begs he would the other weigh,
My lord feems pleas'd, but ftill directs
By all means to bring down the rates;
Then, with a congee circumflex,

Buth, fmiling round on all, retreats.
Our liftener flood a while confus'd,
But, gathering fpirits, wifely ran for 't,
Enrag'd to fee the world abus d

By two fuch whispering kings of Brentford,

THE PROBLEM,

"THAT MY LORD BERKELEY STINKS, WHEN

HE IS IN LOVE."

ID ever problem thus perplex,

y, fex?

So fweet a paffion, who would think,
Jove ever form'd to make a stink?
The ladies vow and fwear, they'll try
Whether it be a truth or lye.

Love's fire, it feems, like inward heat,
Works in my lord by ftool and fweat,
Which brings a ftink from every pore,
And from behind and from before;
Yet, what is wonderful to tell it,

None but the favourite nymph can smell it.
But now, to folve the natural caufe
By fober philofophic laws:

Whether all paffions, when in ferment,
Work out as anger does in vermin;

‡ See “The Rehearsal,”

So, when a weazel you torment,
You find his paffion by his fcent.
We read of kings, who, in a fright,
Though on a throne, would fall to fh.
Befide all this, deep fcholars know,
That the main ftring of Cupid's bow
Once on a time was an a- gut;
Now to a nobler office put,
By favour or defert preferr'd
From giving paffage to a t-;

But ftill, though fix'd among the stars,
Does fympathize with human a-.

Thus, when you feel an hard-bound breech,
Conclude love's bow-ftring at full ftretch,
Till the kind loofenefs comes, and then
Conclude the bow relax'd again.

are

bent

And now, the ladies all
To try the great experiment,
Ambitious of a regent's heart,
Spread all their charms to catch a f~;
Watching the first unfavoury wind,
Some ply before, and fome behind.
My lord, on fire auidft the dames,
Fts like a laurel in the flames.
The fair approach the fpeaking part,
To try the back-way to his heart:
For, as when we a gun discharge,
Although the bore be ne'er fo large,
Before the flame from muzzle burst,
Juft at the breech it flashes firft;
So from my lord 'his paffion broke,
He fd firft, and then he fpoke.

The ladies vanish in the fmother,
To confer notes with one another;
And now they all agreed to name
Whom each-one thought the happy dame.
Quoth Neal, whate'er the reft may think,
I'm fure 'twas I, that fmelt the ftink.
You smell the ftink! by G-, you lye,
Quoth Rofs, for Ell be fworn 'twas I.
Ladies, quoth Levens, pray for bear :
Let's not fall out; we all had share ;
And, by the most I can discover,
My lord 's an universal lover.

THE DESCRIPTION

OF A

SALAMANDER.

1706.

Pliny, Nat. Hift. lib, x. c. 67. lib. xxix. c. 4.

S Maftiff Dogs in modern phrafe are

A called Pompey, Scipio, and Cæfar,

As Pyes and Daws are often ftyld
With Chriftian nicknames, like a child;
As we fay Monfieur to an Ape,
Without offence to human thape;
So men have got, from bird and brute,
Names that would beft their natures fuit,

The Lion, Eagle, Fox, and Boar,
Were Heroes titles heretofore,
L12

Beftow'd as hieroglyphics fit

To fhew their valour, ftrength, or wit:
For what is understood by fame,
Be tides the getting of a mare?
But, e'er fince men invented guns,
A different way their fancy runs :
To paint a Hero, we inquire

For fomething that will conquer fire.
Would you describe Turenne or Trump?
Think of a bucket or a bump.

Are these too low ?—then find out grander,
Call my lord Cutts a Salamander.
'Tis well; but, fince we live among
Detractors with an evil tongue,
Who may object against the term,
Pliny fhall prove what we affirm:
Pliny fhall prove, and we'll apply,
And I'll be judg'd by ftanders-by.

First, then, our author has defin'd
This reptile of the Serpent kind,
With gaudy coat and fhining train;
But loathfome fpots his body ftain;
Out from fome hole obfcure he flies,
When rains defcend, and tempefts rise,
Till the fun clears the air; and then
Crawls back neglected to his den.

So, when the war has rais'd a storm,
I've seen a Snake in human form,
All ftain'd with infamy and vice,
Leap from the dunghill in a trice,
Burui, and make a gandy show,
Become a general, peer, and beau,
Till peace has made the fky forene;
Then fr rink into its hole again.
"All this we grant-why then look yonder:
"Sure that must be a Salamander!"

Farther, we are by Pliny told,
This Serpent is extremely cold;
So cold, that, put it in the fire,
'fwill make the very flames expire:
Befides, it fpues a filthy froth
(Whether through rage or luft, or both)
Of matter purulent or white,
Which, happening on the fkia to light,
And there corrupting to a wound,
Spreads leproty and baldnefs round.

So have I feen a batter'd beau,
By age and claps grown cold as fnow,
Whofe breath or touch, where-e'er he came,
Blew out Love's torch, or chill'd the flame:
And fhould fome nymph, who ne'er was cruel,
Like Charlton cheap, or tam'd De-Ruel,
R ceive the filth which he ejects,
Sa: foon would find the fame effects

Her tainted carcale to puriue,
As from the Salamander's fpue;
A difmal fhedding of her locks,
And, if no leprofy, a pox.

"Then I'll appeal to each by-flander,
"If this be not a Salamander?"

TO THE

EARL OF PETERBOROW, WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES I SPAIN.

M

[ORDANTO £ll the trump of fane, The Chriftian worlds his oeeds proctin, And prints are crouded with his name,

Ia journies he outrides the poft, Sit up till midnight with his hof, Talls politicks, and gives the toalt;

Knows every prince in Europe's face, Flies like a fquib from place to place, And travels not, but runs a race.

From Paris gazette à-la-main,
This day arriv'd, without his train,
Mordanto in a week from Spain."

A meffenger comes all a-reek,
Mord into at Madrid to feek;
He left the town above a week.

Next day the poft-boy winds his horn,
And rides through Dover in the mora:
Mordanto 's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone;

The roads are with her followers ftrown;
This breaks a girth, and that a bone.

His body active as his mind,
Returning found in limb and wind,
Except fome leather loft behind.

A skeleton in outward figure,

His meagre corpfe, though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the leaft fufpicion,
He's with you 1 ke an apparition:

Shines in all climates like a ftar;
In fenates bold, and fierce in war;
A land commander, and a tar:

Heroic actions early bred in ;
Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading,
But by his name-fake Charles of Sweden.

ON THE UNION.

THE Queen has lately lost a part,

Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH heart;
For want of which, by way of botch,
She piec'd up again with scoTCH.
Blent revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states!
See how the double nation lies;
Like a rich coat with skirts of frize:
As if a man, in making poles,
Should bundle thistles up with rofes.
Who ever yet a union law

Of kingdoms without faith or law?
Henc forward let no ftateiman dare
A kingdom to a ship compare ;
Left he fhould call our commonweal
A veffel with a double keel:

*The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.

Which, juft like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd,
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward fde,
The pilot knew not how to guide,
So tolling fation will o'erwhelm
Dar crazy double-bottom'd realm.

ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD. Or, The RECEIPT to form a BEAUTY*, WHEN Cupid did his grandfire Jove intreat To form foine Beauty by a new receipt, Jove feat, and found far in a country-feene Truth, innocence, good-nature, look fereae: From which ingredients firft the dextrous boy Pick'd the demure, the aukward and the coy. The Graces from the court did next provide Breading, and wit, and air, and decent pride : Thefe Venus cleans from every fpurious grain Of nice, coquet, affected, port, and vain. Jove mix'd up all, and his belt clay employ'd; Then called the happy Composition Floyd.

APOLLO OUTWITTED.

TO THE

HON. MRS. FINCH,

Afterwards Countess of Winchelfen, under her Name of Ardelia.

PHOEB

HOEBUS, now shortening every fhade,
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 tene'd his head with his own bays,
Before he durit the nymph approach.
Under thofe facred leaves, fecure

From common lightning of the skies,
He fondly thought he night endure

The flames of Ardulia's eyes.

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

And gue'd his butnefs ere he spoke.
He, in the old celeftial ca it,

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 pr.tence of taking air,
To pick up fublunary ladies.
Howe'er, fhe gave no fiat denial,
A having malice in her heart;
And was refolv'd upon a trial,

To cheat the god in his own art.

* An elegant Latin version of this little poem is in the fixth volume of Dryden's Miscellanies,

Hear my requeft, 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 feize his due :
But he 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 ftay; Nor in her prefence durft be rude ;

But made his leg and went away. He hop'd to and fome 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 fee thy art;
And, though I can't my gift revoke,
I'll difappoint its nobler part.
Let ftubborn pride poffefs thee long,
And be thou negligent of fame;
With every Mufe to grace thy fong,
May'ft thou defpife a poet's name!
Of modeft poets thou be first;

To filent fhades repeat thy verfe,
Till Fame and Echo almoft burst,

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

May' ft thou defcend 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,

1706*,

N times of old, when time was young,

INtings of when time as

A verfe would draw a one 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 build a tower;
Sonnets, or Elegies to Chloris,
Might raife a houte 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 raife a lodging for a fong:

See the note p. 273

For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grow a numerous race;
And, fhould they build as fait 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 spacious air,
With licence to build cajiles 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:
Sig, Mufe, the houfe 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 kill'd
In both capacities to build.
As herald, he can in a day
Repair a houfe 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 ftill.
Great Jove! he cry'd, the art restore
To build by verfe 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 afhes rife,
Fit to invade or prop the fies.
Jove fmil'd, and, like a gentle god,
Confenting with the ufual ncd,
Told Van, he knew his talent beft,
And left the choice to his own breaft.
So Van refolv'd to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was fearce,
With cunning that defect fupplies;
Takes a French play as lawful prize;
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not once fufpe&ting Jove would smoke
And (like a wag fet down to write)
Would whisper to himself, a bite,
Then, from this motley, 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 hatter to a jeft:
Dewn from Olympus top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burft his fides:

Ay, thought the God, are thefe your tricks?
Why then old plays deserve old bricks ;
And, fince you re fparing of your stuff,
Your building fhall be fmall 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 ftand,
The building, as the poet writ,
Rofe in proportion to his wit:
And firft the Prologue built a wall
So wide as to encompass 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 prefuma,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanc'd, he made a fhift
To rife 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 afks the waterman hard-by,
"Where may the poet's palace lie?
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has feen its gilded fpires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing refembling a goofe-pye.
Thither in hafte the poets throng,
And gaze in filent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praife the pile and builder Van:
Thrice happy poet! who may'ft trail
Thy houfe about thee like a fnail;
Or, harness'd to a nag, at eafe
Take journeys in it like a chaife;
Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Canft make it ferve thee for a tilt!
Capacious houfe! 'tis own'd by all
Thou 'rt well contriv'd, though thou art fmall
For every wit in Britain's ifle
May lodge within thy fpacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phoenix from the flame;
But neither bulk nor fhaje the fame :
As animals of largest fize

Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style,
The rubbish of an ancient pile.

So chemifts boaft they have a power
From the dead afhes of a flower
Some faint refemblance to produce,
But not the virtue,, tafte, or juice:
So modern rhymers wifely blait
The poetry of ages päft;
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its ruins build their own,

Not Iris, when the paints the sky,
an fhew more different hue than I:
Nor can fhe change her form fo faft;
'm now a fail, and now a malt:
here am red, and there am green;
beggar there, and here a queen.
fometimes live in houfe of hair,
and oft' in hand of lady fair:
please the young, I grace the old,
and am at once both hot and cold:
ay what I am then, if you can,

nd find the rhyme, and you're the man.

Van faw, but feem'd not to regard,
How Mifs pick'd every painted card,
And, bufy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a houfe two flories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture,
Is hugely turn'd to architecture:
He view'd the edifice, and fmild,
Vow'd it was pretty for a child;
It was fo perfect in its kind,
He kept the model in his mind.

But, when he found the boys at play,
And faw them dabbling in their clay,
He ftood behind a ftall to lurk,
And mark the progress of their work;
With true delight obferv'd them all
Raking up mud to build a wall.
The plan he much admir'd, and took
The model in his table-book;
Thought himself now exactly skill'd,
And fo refolv❜d a house to build;
A real house, with reems, and fairs,
Five times at leaft as big as theirs;
Taller than Mif's by two yards;
Not a fham thing of clay or cards:
And fo he did, for, in a while,
He built up fuch a monftrous pile,
That no two chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it ftands in view,
Juft in the place where firft it grew ;
There all the little fchool-boys run,
Envying to fee themfelves out-done.

From fuch deep rudiments as thefe, Van is become by due degrees For building fam'd, and justly reckon❜d, At court, Vitruvius the fecond: No wonder, fince wife authers frow That beft foundations must be low :

And now the Duke has wifely ta'en him To be his architect at Blenheim.

But, raillery for once apart,

If this rule holds in every art ;

Or if his Grace were no more fkill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to fee next year
A moufe-traf-man chief engincer!