Well, I thought I fhould have fwoon'd; Lord, faid I, what fhall I do?

I have loft my Money, and shall lofe my True Lone too.

Then my Lord call'd me; Harris, said my Lord, don't cry,

I'll give fomething towards thy Lofs; and fays my Lady, fo will I.

Qh ! but faid I, what if, after all, my Chaplain won't come to ?

For that, he said (an't please your Excellencies,) I must petition You.

The Premifes tenderly confider'd, I defire your Excellencies Protection,

And that I may have a Share in next Sunday's Collection:

And over and above, that I may have your Excellencies Letter,

With an Order for the Chaplain aforefaid; or instead of him, a better

And then your poor Petitioner, both Night and Day,

Or the Chaplain, (for 'tis his Trade) as in Duty bound, fhall ever pray.

Lady

Lady B---- B---- finding in the Author's Room fome Verfes unfinished, underwrit a Stanza of her own, with Raillery upon him, which gave Occafion to this Bal

lad.

Ο

To the Tune of, The Cutpurse.

I.

NCE on a Time, as old Stories rehearse, A Friar would needs fhew his Talent in Latin

But was forely put to't in the midst of a Verse, Because he could find no Word to come pat in ;

Then at the Place

He left a void Space,

And fo went to Bed in a defperate Case; When behold the next Morning, a wonderful Riddle,

He found it was ftrangely fill'd up in the Middle!

Chorus. Let cenfuring Criticks, then, think

what they lift on't,

Who would not write Verfes with

Juch an Afflant?

II.

This put me the Friar into an amazement, For he wifely consider'd it must be a Sprite, That came thro' the Key-Hole, or in at the Cazement,

And it needs must be one that could both read and write :

Yet he did not know,

If it were Friend or Foe,

Or whether it came from above or below: Howe'er it was civil, in Angel or Elf,

For he ne'er could have fill'd it fo well of himself.

Cho. Let cenfuring, &c.

III.

Even fo Master Doctor had puzzled his Brains
In making a Ballad, but was at a Stand:
He had mix'd little Wit with a great deal of
Pains,

When he found a new Help from invisible
Hand.

Then good Dr. S---

Pay Thanks for the Gift,

For you freely must own you were at a dead Lift:

And tho' fome malicious young Spirit did

do't,

You may know by the Hand, it had no Cloven Foot.

Cho. Let cenfuring, &c.

V-----'s House, built from the Ruins of Whitehall, that was burnt.

'N Times of Old, when Time was Young, And Poets their own Verfes fung,

I

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 its 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 wou'd flate; a Catch
Wou'd tile; an Epigram wou'd 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 Cafe,
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous Race,
And thou'd 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

*

Leaving the Wits the fpecious Air
With Licence to build Caftles 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;
Sing, Mufe, the Houfe of Poet V----
In higher Strains than we began.
V (for 'tis fit the Reader know it,)
Is both a Herald and a Poet;
No wonder then if nicely fkill'd
In both Capacities to build.
As Herald, he can in a Day
Repair a Houje 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 ftill.
Great Jove! he cry'd, the Art reftore,
To build by Verfe as heretofore;
And make my Muse 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 Skies.

Jove fmil'd, and, like a gentle God,
Confenting with the ufual Nod,

Told ---- he knew his Talent beft,
And left the Choice to his own Breaft.
So V---- refolv'd to write a Farce;
But well perceiving Wit was fcarce,

With