With Cunning that Defect fupplies;
Takes a French Play as lawful Prize;
Steals thence his Plot, and ev'ry Joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove wou'd Smoke ;
And like a Wag, fat down to write,
Wou'd whifper to himself, a Bite:
Then from the motly, mingled 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 Jeft:
Down from Olympus' Top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burft his Sides ;
Ay, thought the God, are thefe your Tricks?
Why then old Plays deserve old Bricks ;
And fince you're sparing 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 stand.

The Building, as the Poet writ,

Rofe in Proportion to his Wit;
And first, a Prologue built a Wall,
So wide as to encompass all.
The Scene a Wood, produc'd no more
Than a few fcrubby 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,

TwQ

Two other Acts we may prefume
Were spent in building each a Room;
Thus far advanc'd, he made a Shift
To raise a Roof with A&t 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 V---
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round,
But no fuch House was to be found.
One asks the Watermen hard by,
Where may the Poet's Palace lie?
Another of the Thames enquires,
If he has feen its gilded Spires?
At length they in the Rubbish spy
A Thing resembling a Goose-Pye.
Farther in hafte the Poets throng,
And gaze in filent wonder long,
Till one in Raptures thus began
To praife 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 Chaife ;
Or in a Boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Canft make it ferve thee for a Tilt.
Capacious House! 'tis own'd by all,
Thou'rt well-contriv'd, tho' thou art fmall;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Ifle
May lodge within thy fpacious Pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, art born again;

Born

The Hiftory of V—'s House.

Born like a Phonix 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 Chymifts boast they have a Pow'r,
From the dead Ashes of a Flow'r
Some faint Refemblance to produce,
But not the Virtue, Tafte, or Juice.
So modern Rhymers wifely blaft
The Poetry of Ages paft;

Which after they have overthrown,
They from its Ruins build their own.

The History of V——'s House.

WH

73

HEN Mother Clud had rofe from Play, And call'd to take the Cards away, -----faw, but feem'd not to regard, How Mifs pick'd ev'ry painted Card; And bufy both with Hand and Eye, Soon rear'd a Houfe two Stories high. V-----'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 fo perfect in its Kind, He kept the Model in his Mind.

But when he found the Boys at Play, And faw them dabling in their Clay,

He

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:
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, and Rooms, and Stairs,
Five Times at least as big as theirs ;
Taller than Mis'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 monstrous 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 firit it grew;
There all the little School-boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.

From fuch deep Rudiments as thefe,
V----- is become by due degrees
For Building fam'd, and justly reckon`d
At Court Vitruvius the Second;

No Wonder, fince wife Authors show,
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 a-part,
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

We might expect to fee next Year
A Mouje-Trap Man chief Engineer.

The Virtues of Sid Hamet the
Magician's Rod.

T

HE Rod was but a harmless Wand,
While Moses held it in his Hand;
But foon as e'er he laid it down,
'Twas a devouring Serpent grown.
Our great Magician, Hamet Sid,
Reverses what the Prophet did;
His Red was honest English Wood,
That fenfelefs in a Corner ftood,
'Till metamorphos'd by his Grasp,
It grew an all-devouring Asp;
Wou'd hifs, and fting, and roll, and twist,
By the mere Virtue of his Fift ;
But when he laid it down, as quick
Refum'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, refumés
The peaceful State of common Brooms.
They tell us fomething ftrange and odd
About a certain Magick Rod,
That, bending down its Top, divines
Whene er the Soil has Golden Mines;