All ftain'd with infamy and vice, Leap from the dunghill in a trice, Burnish, and make a gaudy fhow, Become a general, peer, and beau, Till peace has made the sky ferene; Then thrink into its hole again.
"All this we grant-why, then, look yonder : "Sure that must be a Salamander !” ·
Farther, we are by Pliny told,
This ferpent is extremely cold;
So cold, that, put it in the fire,
'Twill make the very flames expire:
Befides, it fpues a filthy froth
(Whether through rage or luft, or both)
Of matter purulent and white,
Which, happening on the skin to light,
And there corrupting to a wound,
Spreads leprofy and baldness round.
So have I feen a batter'd beau,
By age and claps grown cold as fnow,
Whole breath or touch, where'er he came,
Blew out Love's torch, or chill'd the flame:
And should some nymph, who ne'er was cruel,
Like Charlton cheap, or fam'd Du-Ruel,
Receive the filth which he ejects,
She foon would find the fame effects
Her tainted carcafe to pursue,
As from the Salamander's fpue;
A difmal fhedding of her locks,
And, if no leprofy, a pox.
"Then I'll appeal to each by-ftander,
* If this be not a Salamander ?”
TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW,
WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN.
MORDANTO fills the trump of fame, The Christian worlds his deeds proclaim, And prints are crowded with his name.
In journies he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his hoft,
Talks politics, and gives the toast;
Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a fquib from place to place,
And travels not, but runs a race.
From Paris gazette à-la-main,
This day arriv'd, without his train,
Mordanto in a week from Spain.
A meffenger comes all a-reek,
Mordanto at Madrid to feek;
He left the town above a week.
Next day the poft-boy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn: Mordanto's landed from Leghorn.
Mordanto gallops on alone;
The roads are with her followers ftrown; This breaks a girth, and that a bone.
His body active as his mind, Returning found in limb and wind, Except fome leather loft behind.
A skeleton in outward figure,
His meagre corpfe, though full of vigour, Would halt behind him, were it bigger.
So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the leaft fufpicion,
He's with you like an apparition:
Shines in all climates like a ftar;
In fenates bold, and fierce in war;
A land commander, and a tar:
Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his name-fake Charles of Sweden.
THE Queen has lately lost a part
Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH* heart;
For want of which, by way of botch,
She piec'd it up again with scoTCH.
Bleft revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states!
See how the double nation lies;
Like a rich coat with fkirts of frieze:
As if a man, in making pofies,
Should bundle thiftles up with roses.
Who ever yet a union faw
Of kingdoms without faith or law?
Henceforward let no ftatefmen dare
A kingdom to a fhip compare ;
Left he fhould call our commonweal
A veffel with a double keel:
Which, just like ours, new rigg'd and mann'd,
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward fide,
The pilot knew not how to guide.
So toffing faction will o'erwhelm
Our crazy double-bottom'd realm.
ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD:
OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY.
WHEN Cupid did his grandfire Jove entreat
To form fome Beauty by a new receipt,
Jove fent, and found far in a country scene
Truth, innocence, good nature, look ferene:
From which ingredients first the dextrous boy
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy.
The Graces from the Court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride:
Thefe Venus cleans from every fpurious grain
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain.
Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd;
Then call'd the happy compofition Floyd.
APPOLLO OUTWITTED.
To the Honourable Mrs. Finch, afterwards Countess of Winchelfea, under her name of Ardelia.
PHOEBUS, now fhortening every shade,
Up to the northern tropic came,
And thence beheld a lovely maid,
Attending on a royal dame.
The god laid down his feeble rays,
Then lighted from his glittering coach;
* The motto on Queen Anne's coronation medal.
+ An elegant Latin verfion of this little poem is in
the fixth volume of Dryden's Mifcellanies.
But fenc'd his head with his own bays,
Before he durit the nymph approach.
Under thofe facred leaves, fecure
From common lightning of the skies,
He fondly thought he might endure
The flashes of Ardelia's eyes.
The nymph, who oft' had read in books Of that bright god whom bards invoke, Soon knew Apollo by his looks,
And guefs'd his business ere he spoke.
He, in the old celeftial cant,
Confefs'd his flame, and swore by Styx, Whate'er fhe would defire, to grant
But wife Ardelia knew his tricks.
Ovid had warn'd her, to beware
Of ftrolling gods, whose usual trade is, Under pretence of taking air,
To pick up fublunary ladies.
Howe'er, fhe gave no flat denial,
As having malice in her heart; And was refolv'd upon a trial,
To cheat the god in his own art.
Hear my requeft, the virgin faid;
Let which I please of all the Nine Attend, whene'er I want their aid, Obey my call, and only mine.
By vow oblig'd, by paffion led,
The God could not refufe her prayer: He wav'd his wreath thrice o'er her head, 'Thrice mutter'd something to the air.
And now he thought to feize his due:
But the the charm already tried.
Thalia heard the call, and flew
To wait at bright Ardelia's fide.
On fight of this celeftial prude,
Apollo thought it vain to stay ;
Nor in her prefence durft be rude;
But made his leg, and went away.
He hop'd to find some lucky hour,
When on their queen the mufes wait;
But Palla's owns Ardelia's power;
For vows divine are kept by fate.
Then, full of rage, Apollo spoke :
Deceitful nymph! I fee thy art;
And, though I can't my gift revoke,
I'll disappoint its nobler part.
Let ftubborn pride poffefs thee long,
And be thou negligent of fame;
With every mufe to grace thy fong,
May'ft thou defpife a poet's name!
Of modeft poets thou be firft;
To filent fhades repeat thy verfe, Till Fame and Echo almost burst, Yet hardly dare one line rehearse. And last, my vengeance to complete, May'st thou defcend to take renown, Frevail'd on by the thing you hate,
A whig, and one that wears a gown!
VANBRUCH's HOUSE,
BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL, 1706.
IN times of old, when Time was young,
And poets their own verfes fung,
A verfe would draw a ftone or beam,
That now would overload a team;
Lead them a dance of many a mile,
Then rear them to a goodly pile.
Each number had its different power:
Heroic ftrains could build a tower ;-
Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris,
Might raife a house about two stories;
A lyric 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 raife a lodging for a fong:
For Jove confider'd well the cafe,
Obferv'd they grew a numerous race;
And, fhould 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 cofiles 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 Van
In higher ftrains than we began.
Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it)
Is both a herald and a poet;
No wonder then if nicely skilled'
In both capacities to build.
As herald, he can in a day
Repair a boufe 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 ftill,
Great Jove! he cry'd, the art reftore
To build by verfe as heretofore,
And make my mufe the architect;
What palaces fhall we erect!
No longer shall forfaken Thames
Lament his old Whitehall in flames;
A pile fhall from its afhes rife,
Fit to invade or prop the fkies.
Jove fmil'd, and, like a gentle god,
Confenting with the ufual nod,
Told Van, he knew his talent beft,
And left the choice to his own breast.
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 every joke,
Not once fufpecting Jove would smoke;
And (like a wag fet down to write)
Would whifper to himself, a bite;
Then, from this motley, mingled ftyle,
Proceeded to ered his pile.
Se 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 jeft:
Down from Olympus' top he flides,
Laughing as if he'd burft his fides:
Ay, thought the God, are these your tricks?
Why then off plays deserve old bricks;
And, fince you're fparing of your stuff,
Your building fhall be finall 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:
And first the Prologue built a wall
Se 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:
Two other Acts, we may prefume,
Were spent in building each a room.
Thus far advanc'd, he made a fhift
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.
Ore as the watermen hard-by,
Where may the poets palace lie ?"
Another of the Thames inquires,
If he has feen its gilded spires?
At length they in the rubbish spy
A thing refembling a goose-pye.
Thither in hafte the poets throng,
And gaze in filent wonder long,
Till one in raptures thus began
To praife the pile and builder Van:
Thrice happy poet! who may'st trail
Thy houfe about thee like a fnail;
Or, harnefs'd to a nag, at ease
Take journeys in it like a chaife;
Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt,
Canft make it ferve thee for a tilt!
Capacious houfe! 'tis own'd by all
Thou'rt well contriv'd, though thou art fmall:
For every wit in Britain's ifle
May lodge within thy fpacious pile.
Like Bacchus thou, as poets feign,
Thy mother burnt, are born again,
Born like a phoenix from the flame;
But neither bulk nor frape the fame :
As animals of largeft fize
Corrupt to maggots, worms, and flies;
A type of modern wit and style,
The ratlife of an ancient pile.
So chemits boast they have a power
From the dead afhes of a flower
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.
FROM India's burning clime I'm brought
With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.
Not Iris, when he paints the fky,
Can fhow more different hue than I:
Nor can fhe change her form fo fast;
I'm now a fail, and now a mast:
I here am red, and there am green;
A beggar there, and here a queen..
I fometimes live in houfe of hair,
And oft' in hand of lady fair:
I please the young, I grace the old,
And am at once both hot and cold:
Say what I am then, if you can,
And find the rhyme, and you're the man
And, bufy both with hand and eye,
Soon rear'd a houfe two ftories high.
Van's genius, without thought or lecture,
Is hugely turn'd to architecture:
He view'd the edifice, and fmil'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 dabbling in their clay,
He stood behind a stall to lurk,
And mark the progrefs of their work;
With true delight obferv'd them 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 boufe to build;
A real boufe, with rooms and fairs,
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 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 firft it grew;
There all the little fchool-boys run,
Envying to fee themselves outdone.
From fuch deep rudiments as these,
Van is become by due degrees
For building fam'd, and juftly reckon'd,
At Court, Vitruvius the fecond:
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 apart,
If this rule holds in every art;
Or if his Grace were no more skill'd in
The art of battering walls than building,
We might expect to fee next year
A mouse-trap man chief engineer!
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
ON THE EVER-LAMENTED LOSS OF THE TWO YEW-TREES IN THE PARISH OF CHILTHORNE, SOMERSET. 1708.
Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.
In ancient times, as story tells,
The faints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hofpitality.
It happen'd on a winter-night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother-hermits, faints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Difguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a fmall village down in Kent;
Where, in the ftrollers' canting ftrain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a foul would let them in.
Our wandering faints, in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village paft,
To a fmall cottage came at last!
Where dwelt a good old honeft ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;
Who kindly did thefe faints invite
In his poor hut to país the night;
And then the hofpitable fire
Bid goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fatteft fide
Cut out large flices to be fry'd;
Then stepp'd afide to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And faw it fairly twice go round;
'Yet (what is wonderful!) they found
"Twas ftill replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amaz'd,
And often on each other gaz'd;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,-What ar't!
Then foftly turn'd afide to view
Whether the lights were burning blue.
The gentle pilgrims, foon aware on't,
Told them their calling, and their errand:
Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but faints, the hermits faid;
No hurt fhall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Chriftian ground,
They and their houfes fhall be drown'd;
Whilft you fhali fee your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They fcarce had spoke, when fair and foft
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rofe every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd flowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a fteeple with a fpire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there ftood faften'd to a joift,
But with the upfide down, to fhow
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a fuperior force,
Apply'd at bottom, ftops its course :
Doom'd ever in fufpence to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almoft
Loft by difufe the art to roast,
A fudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new inteftine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion flower:
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round fo quick, you fcarce could fee 't;
But, flacken'd by fome fecret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's fide:
The chimney to a fteeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And ftill its love to houfehold cares,
By a fhrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roaft-meat which it cannot tarp.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge fnail, along the wall;
There ftuck aloft in public view,
And, with fmall change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering fhow,
To a lefs noble fubftance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pafted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rofamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now feem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, fize, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, defcribe
The heraldry of every tribe *.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphos'd into pews;
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks difpos'd to fleep.
The cottage by fuch feats as thefe
Grown to a church by juft degrees,
The hermits then defir'd their hoft
To ask for what he fancy'd moft.
Philemon, having paus'd a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style:
Then faid, My houfe is grown fo fine,
Methinks I ftill would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parfon, if you please.
He fpoke, and presently he feels His grazier s coat fall down his heels: He fees, yet hardly can believe, About each arm a pudding-fleeve; His waistcoat to a caflock grew, And both affum'd a fable hue; But, being old, continued just As thread-bare, and as full of dust. His talk was now of tithes and dues : He fmok'd his pipe, and read the news; Knew how to preach oid fermons next, Vamp'd in the preface and the text; At chriftenings well could act his part, And had the fervice all by heart; With'd women might have children fast, And thought whofe fow had farrow'd laft; Against diffenters would repine, And ftood up firm for right divine; Found his head fill'd with many a system: But claffic authors,-he ne'er mifs'd 'em.
Thus having furbish'd up a parfon, Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on. Inftead of home-spun coifs, were feen Good pinners edg'd with colberteen ; Her petticoat, transform'd apace, Became black fattin flounc'd with lace. Plain Goaty would no longer down; "Twas Madam, in her grogram gown. Philemon was in great furprise, And hardly could believe his eyes, Amaz'd to fee her look fo prim; And the admir'd as much at him.
The tribes of Ifrael are fometimes diftinguifted in entry charches by the enfigus given to them by Jacob.
Thus happy in their change of life Were feveral years this man and wife; When on a day, which prov'd their last, Difcourfing o'er old ftories paft,
They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the church-yard to take a walk; When Baucis haftily cry'd out,
My dear, I fee your forehead fprout!
Sprout! quoth the man; what's this you tell us?
I hope you don't believe me jealous!
But yet, methinks, I feel it true;
And really yours is budding too--
Nay, now I cannot ftir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Defcription would but tire my Muse;
In fhort, they both were turn'd to yerus.
Old Goodman Dobfon of the green
Remembers, he the trees has feen;
He'll talk of them from noon till night,
And goes with folks to fhow the fight:
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 fcrubbed, dy'd a-top, was stunted;
So the next parfon stubb'd and burnt it.
On the fuppofed Death of Partridge, the Almanac Maker. 1708.
WELL; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guefs'd,
Though we all took it for a jeft:
Partridge is dead; nay more, he dy'd
Ere he could prove the good 'fquire ly'd.
Strange, an aftrologer fhould die
Without one wonder in the fky!
Not one of all his crony ftars
To pay their duty at his herfe!!
No meteor, no eclipfe appear'd!
No comet with a flaming beard!
The fun has rofe, and gone to bed,
Juft as if Partridge were not dead;
Nor hid himself behind the moon,
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks through Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies;
And twice a-year he 'll cut th' equator,
As if there had been no fuch matter.
Some wits have wonder'd what analogy
There is 'twit* cobling and afrology;
How Partridge made his optics rife
From a fboe-fole to reach the fkies.
A lift the cobler's temples ties,
To keep the hair out of his eyes;
From whence 'tis plain, the diadem
That princes wear, derives from them:
And therefore crowns are now a-days
Adorn'd with golden ftars and rays;
Which plainly shows the near alliance
"Twixt colling and the planets fcience.
Partridge was a cobler.
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