BALLAD TO LADY BETTY BERKELEY. 77
This put me the friar into an amazement For he wifely confider'd it must be a fprite, That came through the key-hole, or in at the cafement;
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, etc.
Even so mafter 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 invi、
fible hand.
Then good doctor Swift,
Pay thanks for the gift,
For you freely muft own you were at a
And, though fome malicious young spirit did do't,
You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.
Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.
Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt.
N times of old, when time was young,
IN
And poets their own verses fung
A verfe could draw a ftone or beam,
That now would over-load a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its diff'rent pow'r :
Heroick ftrains could build a tow'r;
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,
Might raise a house about two ftories;
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 fong:
For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grew a num'rous race;
And fhou'd they build as faft 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 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 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 houfe* 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 fpeculation still.
Great Jove! he cry'd, the art reftore
To build by verse 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 ashes rise,
Fit to invade or prop the skies.
Jove fmil'd, and like a gentle God,
Consenting with the ufual 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 scarce,
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 fmoke;
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 best
To turn the matter to a jest:
Down from Olympus' top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burit his fides:
Ay, thought the God, are thefe
your tricks
Why then old plays deferve old bricks ;
And, fince you're fparing of your ftuff,
Your building shall be small enough.
He spake, 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:
And first the 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 fo
A cellar next was dug below:
But this a work fo hard was found,
Two acts it coft 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 raise 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 Van,
Look'd high and low, walk'd often round;
But no fuch houfe was to be found:
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