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The Building, as the Poet writ,
Role in Proportion to his Wit;
And firit a 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 coit 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 raile 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 y
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round,
But no such Houfe was to be found;
One asks the Watermen hard by,
the Poet's Palace lie?
Anocher of the Thames enquires,
If he has seen its gilded Spires ?
Ar length they in the Rubbish spy
A Thing resembling a Goose-Pye,
Farther in Halte the Poets throng,
And gaze in silent Wonder long,
Till one in Raptures thus began
To praise the Pile and Builder V
Thrice happy Poet who may trail
Thy House about thee like a Snail ;
Or harness'd to a Nag, at Ease
Take Journies in it like a Chaile ;
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, tho' thou art small;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Ille
May lodge within thy spacious Pile,
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, are born again ;
Born like a Phænix 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 Rubbis of an ancient Pile ;
So Chymists boast they have a Pow'r,
From the dead Ashes of a Flow'r
Some faint Resemblance to produce,
But not the Virtue, Tafte, or Juice.
So modern Rhymers wisely blast
The Poetry of Ages paft ;
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.
The History of V's House.
THEN Mother Clud had rose from Play,
Vsaw, but seem'd not to regard,
How Miss pick'd ev'ry painted Card ;
And busy both with Hand and Eye,
Soon rear'd a House two Stories high :
Vs Genius, without Thought or Lecture,
Is hugely turn’d to Architecture:
He view'd the Edifice, and smilu,
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 dabling in their Clay,
He stood behind a Stall to lurk,
And mark the Progress of their Work ;
With true Delight observ'd 'em all
Raking up Mud to build a Wall :
T'he Plan he much admir'd, and took
The Model in his Table Book ;
Thought himself now exactly skills,
And so resolv'd a House to build ;
A real House, and 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 Whiteball 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 are these,
Va is become by due Degrees ;
For Building fam'd, and juftly reckon'd
At Court, Vitruvius the Second.
Now Wonder, since wise Author's show
That best Foundations must be low ;
And now the Duke has wisely ta'en him
To be his Architekt at Blenheim ;
But Raillery for once a-
If this Rule holds in ev'ry 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.
The Virtues of SID HAME T, the
'HE Rod was but a harmless Wand,
While Moses held it in his Hand;
But soon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring Serpent grown.
Our great Magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the Prophet did;
His Rod was honest English Wood,
That senseless in a Corner stood,
Till metamorphos’d by his Grasp,
It grew an all-devouring Afp;
Wou'd hiss, and sting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere Virtue of his Fift;
But when he laid it down, as quick
Resum'd the Figure of a Stick.
So to her Midnight Feasts the Hag
Rides on a Broomstick for a Nag,
That rais'd by Magick of her Breech,
O'er Sea and Land conveys the Witch ;
But, with the Morning Dawn, resumes
The peaceful State of common Brooms.
They tell us something firange and odd,
About a certain Magick Red,