"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!"
BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL, 1706 1.
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 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 strains could build a tower;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a house about two stories;
Alvric 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,
Observ'd they grew a numerous race;
And, should they build as fast as write,
'Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wisely 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 castles there:
And, 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence,
Promising 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 atchievement, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice :
And, as a poet, he has skill
To build in speculation still.
"Great Jove !" he cry'd," 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 smil'd, 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 resolv'd to write a farce;
But, well perceiving wit was scarce,
With cunning that defect supplies;
Takes a French play as lawful prize;
1 See the note in the next page.
Steals thence his plot and every joke,
Not one 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' experienc'd 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 produc'd, no more
Than a few scrubby trees before.
The Plot as yet lay deep; and so
A cellar next was dug below:
But this a work so hard was found,
Two Acts it cost him under ground:
Two other Acts we may presume,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanc'd, he made a shift
To raise 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 see the house of brother Van;
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round;
But no such house was to be found.
One asks the watermen hard-by,
"Where may the poet's palace he?"
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has seen its gilded spires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing resembling a goose-pye.
Thither in haste the poets throng,
And gaze in silent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praise the pile and builder Van:
"Thrice happy poet! who may'st trail
Thy house about thee like a snail;
Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease
Take journies in it like a chaise ;
Or in a boat whene'er thou wilt,
Canst make it serve thee for a tilt!
Capacious house! 'tis own'd by all
Thou 'rt well contriv'd, though thou art small:
For every wit in Britain's isle
May lodge within thy spacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, art born again,
Born like a phenix from the flame;
But neither bulk nor shape the same:
As animals of largest size
Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style,
The rubbish of an ancient pile.
So chymists boast they have a power
From the dead ashes of a flower
And find the rhyme, and you 're the man.
YOUR house of hair, and lady's hand, At first did put me to a stand. I have it now-'tis plain enoughYour hairy business is a muff. Your engine fraught with cooling gales, At once so like your masts and sails; Your thing of various shape and hue, Must be some painted toy, I knew: And for the rhyme to you 're the man, What fits it better than a fan?
I'M wealthy and poor,
I'm empty and full,
I'm humble and proud,
I'm witty and dull.
I'm foul, and yet fair;
I'm old, and yet young:
I lie with Moll K-r,
And toast Mrs.
In rigging he 's rich, though in pocket he 's poor; He cringes to courtiers, and cocks to the cits; Like twenty he dresses, but looks like threescore; He's a wit to the fools, and a fool to the wits. Of wisdom he 's empty, but full of conceit; He paints and perfumes, while he rots with the scab; [gait; 'Tis a Beau you may swear by his sense and his He boasts of a beauty, and lies with a drab.
1 Originally communicated by Swift to Oldisworth, who published them in The Muses Mercury, 1709. Some other amusements of the same nature, written about 1724, may be seen in some subsequent pages of this volume.
WHEN mother Clud had rose from play,
And call'd to take the cards away,
Van
saw, but seem'd not to regard,
How Miss pick'd every painted card,
And, busy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a house two stories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture
Is hugely turn'd to architecture:
He view'd the edifice, and smil'd,
Vow'd it was pretty for a child;
It was so perfect in its kind,
He kept the model in his mind.
But, when he found the boys at play,
And saw them dabbling in their clay,
He stood behind a stall to lurk,
And mark the progress of their work;
With true delight observ'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 so resolv'd a house to build;
A real house, with rooms, and stairs,
Five times at least as big as theirs ;
Taller than Miss's by two yards;
Not a sham thing of clay or cards;
And so he did; for, in a while,
He built up such a monstrous pile,
That no two chairmen could be found
Able to lift it from the ground.
Still at Whitehall it stands in view,
Just in the place where first it grew;
There all the little school-boys run,
Envying to see themselves out-done.
From such deep rudiments as these,
Van is become by due degrees
For building fam'd, and justly reckon'd,
At court, Vitruvius the second:
No wonder, since wise authors show
That best foundations must be low:
And now the duke has wisely 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 skill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to see next year
A mouse-trap-man chief engineer!
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH of chilthorne, SOMERSET. 1708.
IMITATED FROM THE eighth BOOK OF OVID.
In ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
1 Dr.Swift made sir John Vanbrugh ample amends for the pointed raillery of this and the poem in the preceding page, in the Preface to his Miscellanies. 1727. N.
It happen'd on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last!
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor but to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
Twas still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-" What ar't!"
Then softly turn'd aside to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand:
"Good folks you need not be afraid,
We are but saints," the hermits said;
No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes."
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft
The roof began to mount alof;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten'd to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below:
In vain ; for a superior force,
Apply'd at bottom, stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower:
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, size, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, describe
The heraldry of every tribe 1.
A beadstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks dispos'd to sleep.
The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desir'd their host
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then said, "My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease?
Make me the parson, if you please."
He spoke and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassoc grew,
And both assum'd a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As thread-bare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues :
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish'd women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system:
But classic authors,-he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish d up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;
1 The tribes of Israel are sometimes distinguished in country churches by the ensigns given to them by Jacob,
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black sattin flounc'd with lace.
Plain Goody would no longer down;
'Twas Madam, in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look so prim;
And she admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife; When on a day, which prov'd their last, Discoursing o'er old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk,. To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cry'd out, "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" Sprout!" quoth the man; "what's this you tell I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And really yours is budding tooNay, now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root."
Description would but tire my Muse;
In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers, he the trees has seen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
On Sundays, after evening-prayer,
He gathers all the parish there;
Points out the place of either yew;
Here Baucis, there Philemon, grew:
Till once a parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believ'd
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubbed, dy'd a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubb'd and burnt it.
ON THE SUPPOSED DEATH OF PARTRIDGE, THE
ALMANACK-MAKER. 1708.
WELL; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Though we all took it for a jest:
he dy'd
Partridge is dead; nay more,
Ere he could prove the good 'squire ly'd.
Strange, an astrologer should die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of all his crony stars
To pay their duty at his hearse!
No meteor, no eclipse appear'd !
No comet with a flaming beard!
The Sun has rose, and gone to bed,
Just as if Partridge were not dead;
Nor hid himself behind the Moon,
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks through Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies;
And twice a year he'll cut th' equator.
As if there had been no such matter.
Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
There is 'twixt cobling 1 and astrology;
How Partridge made his optics rise,
From a shoe-sole to reach the skies.
1 Partridge was a cobler.
A list the cobler's temples ties,
To keep the hair out of his eyes;
From whence 'tis plain, the diadem
That princes wear, derives from them:
And therefore crowns are now-a-days
Adorn'd with golden stars and rays;
Which plainly shows the near alliance
'Twixt cobling and the planets science.
Besides, that slow-pac'd sign Boötes,
As 'tis miscall'd, we know not who 'tis :
But Partridge ended all disputes;
He knew his trade, and call'd it 2 boots.
The horned moon, which heretofore
Upon their shoes the Romans wore,
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
And whence we claim our shoeing-horns,
Shows how the art of cobling bears
A near resemblance to the spheres.
A scrap of parchment hung by geometry
(A great refinement in barometry)
Can, like the stars, foretel the weather;
And what is parchment else but leather ?
Which an astrologer might use
Either for almanacks or shoes.
Thus Partridge by his wit and parts
At once did practise both these arts:
And as the boding owl (or rather
The bat, because her wings are leather)
Steals from her private cell by night,
And flies about the candle-light:
So learned Partridge could as well
Creep in the dark from leathern cell,
And in his fancy fly as far
To peep upon a twinkling star.
Besides, he could confound the spheres,
And set the planets by the ears;
To show his skill, he Mars could join
To Venus in aspect malign;
Then call in Mercury for aid,
And cure the wounds that Venus made,
Great scholars have in Lucian read,
When Philip king of Greece was dead,
H's soul and spirit did divide,
And each part took a different side:
One rose a star; the other fell
Beneath, and mended shoes in Hell.
Thus Partridge still shines in each art,
The cobling and star-gazing part;
And is install'd as good a star
As any of the Cæsars are.
Triumphant star! some pity show
On coblers militant below,
Whom roguish boys, in stormy nights,
Torment by pissing out their lights;
Or through a chink convey their smoke,
Enclos'd artificers to choke.
Thou, high exalted in thy sphere.
May'st follow still thy calling there.
To thee the Bull will lend his hide,
By Phoebus newly tann'd and dry'd;
-For thee they Argo's hulk will tax,
And scrape her pitchy sides for wax :
Then Ariadne kindly lends
Her braided hair to make the ends:
The points of Sagittarius' dart
Turns to an awl by heavenly art;
And Vulcan, wheedled by his wife,
Will forge for thee a paring-knife.
For want of room by Virgo's side,
She'll strain a point, and set astride,
To take thee kindly in between;
And then the signs will be thirteen.
HERE, five feet deep, lies on his back,
A cobler, starmonger, and quack;
Who to the stars in pure good-will
Does to his best look upward still.
Weep, all you customers that use
His pills, his almanacks, or shoes:
And you that did your fortunes seek,
Step to his grave but once a week:
This earth which bears his body's print,
You'll find has so much virtue in 't,
That I durst pawn my ears 'twill tell
Whate'er concerns you full as well,
In physic, stolen-goods, or love,
As he himself could, when above.
MERLIN'S PROPHECY, 1709.
SEVEN and ten addyd to nine,
Of Fraunce her woe this is the sygne;
Tamys rivere twys y-frozen,
Walke sans wetyng shoes ne hozen.
Then comyth foorthe, ich understonde,
From towne of stoffe to fattyn londe,
An hardie chiftan 1, woe the morne,
To Fraunce that evere he was born.
Then shall the fyshe 2 beweyle his bosse;
Nor shall grin berrys 3 make up the losse,
Yonge Symnele 4 shall again miscarrye;
And Norways pryd again shall marrey:
And from the tree where blosums feele,
Rife fruit shall come, and all is wele.
Reaums shall daunce honde in honde 6,
And it shall be merye in old Inglonde;
Then old Inglonde shall be no more,
And no man shall be sorie therefore.
Geryon shall have three hedes agayne,
Till Hapsburge makyth them but twayne.
THE MORNING. 1709.
Now hardly here and there an hackney coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy Morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own ;
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl'd her mop with dextrous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel's edge, were wheels had worn the place.
I D. of Marlborough. 2 The dauphin.
D. of Berry. The young pretender.
5 Q. Anne.
6 By the Union.
A king of Spain slain by Hercules.
The small-coal-man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet;
And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half the
The turnkey now his flock returning sees, [street.
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.
IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S GEORGICS. 1710.
CAREFUL observers may fortel the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more,
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offended sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wing's,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope:
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quear!
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife,
But aided by the wind, fought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade ?
Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain !
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The templar spruce, while every spout 's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck'd-up semstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through)
The archduke Charles was of the Hapsburg Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear.
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