THE Building, as the Poet writ,
Rofe in Proportion to his Wit;
And firft 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 cost him under Ground,
Two other Acts we may prefume
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 fee the Houfe of Brother V
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round,
But no fuch Houfe was to be found;
One afks 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 refembling a Goose-Pye,
Farther in Hate the Poets throng,
And gaze in filent 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 Eafe
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 small;
For ev'ry Wit in Britain's Isle
May lodge within thy spacious Pile,
Like Bacchus thou, as Poets feign,
Thy Mother burnt, are born again;
Born like a Phanix from the Flame,
But neither Bulk nor Shape the fame;
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 boat 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 Hiftory of V's House.
WHEN Mother Clud had rofe from Play,
And call'd to take the Cards away,
V-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 (mil'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 stood behind a Stall to lurk,
And mark the Progrefs of their Work;
With true Delight obferv'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 Houfe to build;
A real Houfe, and Rooms, and Stairs,
Five Times at least as big as theirs ;
Taller than Mifs's by two Yards,
Not a fham Thing of Clay or Cards ;
And fo 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,
Juft in the Place where firft it grew :
There all the little School-boys run,
Envying to fee themselves out-done.
FROM fuch deep Rudiments are these,
V is become by due Degrees;
For Building fam'd, and juftly reckon❜d
At Court, Vitruvius the Second.
Now 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 fkill'd in
The Art of Battering Walls than Building;
We might expect to fee next Year
A Moufe-Trap Man chief Engineer.
The Virtues of SID HAMET, the Magician's Rod.
HE Rod was but a harmless Wand,
While Mofes 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 Rod was honeft English Wood,
That fenfeless in a Corner ftood,
Till metamorphos'd by his Grafp,
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 Feafts 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 fomething flrange and odd,
About a certain Magick Rod,
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