ÖLD Goodman Dobfon, of the Green,
Remembers he the Trees has feen;
He'll talk of them from Noon to Night,
goes with Folks to fhew 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 Parfon 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 fcrubby, dy'd a-top, was ftunted:
So, the next Parfon stubb'd and burnt it.
Built from the Ruins of Whitehall,
Written in the Year 1708.
N Times of Old, when Time was young,
And Poets their own Verfes fung,
A Verfe could draw a Stone or Beam,
That now would over-load a Team;
Lead 'em a Dance of many a Mile,
Then rear 'em to a goodly Pile.
Each Number had it's diff'rent Pow'r;
Heroick Strains could build a Tow'r;
Sonnets, or Elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a House about two Stories;
A Lyrick 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 raise a Lodging for a Song.
For Jove confider'd well the Case;
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous Race,
And should 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 spacious Air,
With Licence to build Caffles there:
And 'tis conceiv'd their old Pretence
To lodge in Garrets, comes from thence.
PREMISING thus in modern Way
The better Half we have to fay;
Sing Mufe, 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 Fove! he cry'd, the Art reftore;
To build by Verfe, as heretofore;
And make my Mufe the Archite&t;
What Palaces fhall we ere&!
No longer shall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in Flames:
A Pile fhall from its Ashes rife,
Fit to invade, of prop the Skies.
JOVE smil'd, and like a gentle God, Confenting with his usual Nod,
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 fcarce, With Cunning that Defect fupplies;
Takes a French Play as lawful Prize;
Steals thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would smoke z
And like a Wag) fat down to write,
Would whisper to himself; A Bite.
Then from this motly mingl❜d Style
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 beft
To turn the Matter to a Jest:
Down from Olympus Top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burst his Sides;
Ay, thought the God, are these
Why then old Plays deserve old Bricks;
And fince you're fpating of your Stuff,
Your Building shall be small 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:
|