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So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief, (Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief.) [about: However, I am resolv'd to bring the discourse slily Mrs. Dukes, said I, here's an ugly accident has happen'd out: 'Tis not that I value the money three skips of a louse; But the thing Istand upon is the credit of the house. 'Tis true, seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages: Besides, as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and every body understands, That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands. The devil take me! said she (blessing herself) if ever I saw't So she roar'd like a bedlam, as though I had call’d her all to naught. So you know, what could I say to her any more ? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. Well; but then they would had me gone to the cunning man! No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon. So the chaplain came in. Now the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. So as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd, Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity, when a body's plunder'd (Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd parson like the devil!) Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil ; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see, [me; You are no tert for my handling; so take that from I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know. Lord! said I, don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; You know I honour the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer in all my life; With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, [away. Now you may go hang yourself for me, and so went Well: I thought I would have swoon'd. Lord! said I, what shall I do I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love too! Then my Lord call'd me: Harry, said my Lord, don't cry; I'll give you something towards thy loss; and, says my Lady, so will I. Oh I but, *aid I, what if, after all, the chaplain won't come to?

For that, he said, (an't please your Ercellencies)
must petition you.
The premises tenderly consider'd, I desire your
Ercellencies' protection, [lection;
And that I may have a share in next Sunday's co-
And, over and above, that I may have your Ercol.
lencies' letter,
With an order for the chaplain aforesaid, 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,
shall ever pray.

TO THE EARL OF PETER BOR0W,

who commANDED THE BRitish Forces IN spano

Mordanto fills the trump of fame,
The Christian world his deeds proclaim,
And prints are crowded with his name.

In journies he outrides the post,
Sits up till midnight with his host,
Talks politics, and gives the toast;

Knows every prince in Europe's face,
Flies like a squib srom 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 messenger comes all a-reek,
Mordanto at Madrid to seek ;
He left the town above a week.

Next day the post-boy winds his horn,
And rides through Dover in the moru :
Mordanto's landed from Leghorn.

Mordanto gallops on alone;
The roads are with his followers strown;
This breaks a girth, and that a bone.

His body active as his mind,
Returning sound in limb and wind,
Except some leather lost behind.

A skeleton in outward figure,
His meagre corpse, though full of vigour,
Would halt behind him, were it bigger.

So wonderful his expedition,
When you have not the least suspicion, |
He's with you like an apparition: |

Shines in all climates like a star;
In senates 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-sake Charles of Sweden.

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WANBRUGH'S HOUSE, *** *how the Ruins of whitehall, 1706. In times of old, when time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verse would draw a stone 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 strains could build a tower; Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, Might raise a house about two stories; A lyric ode would slate; a catch Would tile ; an epigram would thatch. But, to their own or landlord's cost, Now poets feel this art is lost. Not one of all our tuneful throng Can raise a lodging for a song: For Jove consider'd well the case, Observ'd they grew a numerous race; And, should they build as fast as write, *Twould ruin undertakers quite. This evil therefore to prevent, He wisely 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 castles there: And, 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. Premising thus, in modern way, The better half we have to say: Sing, Muse, 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 skilled In both capacities to build. As herald, he can in a day Repair a house gone to decay; Or, by achievement, arms, device, Erect a new one in a trice; And, as a poet, he has skill To build in speculation still. Great Jove! he cry'd, the art restore To build by verse as heretofore, And make my Muse the architect; What palaces shall we erect : No longer shall forsaken Thames Lament his old Whitehall in flames; A pile shall from its ashes rise, Fit to invade or prop the skies. Jove smil'd, and, like a gentle god, Consenting with the usual nod, Told Van, he knew his talent best, And left the choice to his own breast. * Van resolv'd to write a farce; *~ well perceiving wit was scarce, Tth cunning that defect supplies; * -es a French play as lawful prize; *=ls hence his plot and every joke, once suspecting Jove would smoke;

And (like a wag set down to write)
Would whisper to himself, a bite;
Then, from this motley, mingled style,
Proceeded to erect his pile.
So men of old, to gain renown, did
Build Babel with their tongues confounded.
Jove saw the cheat, but thought it best
To turn the matter to a jest:

Down from Olympus too he slides,

Laughing as if he'd burst his sides: Ay, thought the god, are these your tricks? Why then old plays deserve old bricks; And, since you're sparing of your stuff, 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 second-hand), Now move, and now in order stand. The building, as the poet writ, Rose 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 so A cellar next was dug below: But this a work so hard was found, Two acts it cost 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 see the house of brother Van ; Look'd high and low, walk'd often round; But no such house was to be found. One asks the waterman hard-by, “Where may the poets palace lie?” Another of the Thames inquires, If he has seen its gilded spires At length they in the rubbish spy A thing resembling a goose-pye. Thither in haste the poets throng, And gaze in silent wonder long, Till one in rapture thus began To praise the pile and builder Van: Thrice happy poet ! who mayet trail Thy house about thee like a snail; Or, harness'd to a nag, at ease Take journeys in it like a chaise; Or in a boat, whene'er thou wilt, Canst make it serve thee for a tilt 1 Capacious house ! 'tis own’d by all Thou'rt well contriv'd, though thou art small: For every 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 phoenix from the flame; But neither bulk nor shape the same: S s

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 chemists boast they have a power
From the dead ashes of a flower
Some faint resemblance to produce,
But not the virtue, taste, or juice:
So modern rhymers wisely blast
The poetry of ages past;
Which after they have overthrown,
They from its ruins build their own.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. 1708.

on The EVER-LAMENTED Loss of The Two YEWTREES IN THE PARIs H of chilthor NE, someRseT.

Imitated from the Eighth Book of Ovid.

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter's night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother-hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would let them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last! Where dwelt a good old honest ye’man, Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A slitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fry’d; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink, Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful 1) they found, 'Twas still 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 cryo-What ar't! Then softly turn’d aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue. The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't, Told them their calling, and their errand.

Good folks, you need not be afraid,
We are but saints, the hermits said;
No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd,
Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes.
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fasten’d to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below:
In vain; for a superior force,
Apply'd at bottom, stops its course:
Doom'd ever in suspence to dwell,
"Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increas'd by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower:
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turn'd round so quick, you scarce could see 't;
But, slacken'd by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near ally'd,
Had never left each other's side:
The chimney to the steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But, up against the steeple rear'd,
Became a clock, and still adher'd;
And still its love to household cares,
By a shrill voice at noon, declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast-meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning-chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And, with small change, a pulpit grew.
The porringers, that in a row
Hung high, and made a glittering show,
To a less noble substance chang'd,
Were now but leathern buckets rang'd.
The ballads, pasted on the wall,
Of Joan of France, and English Moll,
Fair Rosamond, and Robin Hood,
The Little Children in the Wood,
Now seem'd to look abundance better,
Improv'd in picture, size, and letter;
And, high in order plac'd, describe
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 dispos'd to sleep.
The cottage by such feats as these
Grown to a church by just degrees,
The hermits then desir'd their host
To ask for what he fancy'd most.
Philemon, having paus’d a while,
Return'd them thanks in homely style :
Then said, My house is grown so fine,
Methinks I still would call it mine;
I'm old, and fain would live at ease;
Make me the parson if you please.
He spoke, and presently he feels
His grazier's coat fall down his heels:
He sees, yet hardly can believe,
About each arm a pudding-sleeve;
His waistcoat to a cassock grew,
And both assum’d a sable hue;
But, being old, continued just
As threadbare, and as full of dust.
His talk was now of tithes and dues:
He smok'd his pipe, and read the news;
Knew how to preach old sermons next,
Vamp'd in the preface and the text;
At christenings well could act his part,
And had the service all by heart;
Wish’d women might have children fast,
And thought whose sow had farrow'd last;
Against dissenters would repine,
And stood up firm for right divine;
Found his head fill'd with many a system;
But classic authors, he ne'er miss'd 'em.
Thus having furbish’d up a parson,
Dame Baucis next they play'd their farce on.
Instead of home-spun coifs, were seen
Good pinners edg'd with colberteen;
Her petticoat, transform'd apace,
Became black satin flounc'd with lace.
Plain goody would no longer down;
"Twas madam in her grogram gown.
Philemon was in great surprise,
And hardly could believe his eyes,
Amaz'd to see her look so prim;
And she admir'd as much at him.
Thus happy in their change of life
Were several years this man and wife;
When on a day, which prov'd their last,
Discoursing o'er old stories past,
They went by chance, amidst their talk,
To the church-yard to take a walk;
When Baucis hastily cry'd out,
My dear, I see your forehead sprout!
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 stir my foot;
It feels as if 'twere taking root.
Description would but tire my Muse;
In short they both were turn'd to yews.
Old Goodman Dobson of the green
Remembers he the trees has seen;

He'll talk of them from noon till might,
And goes with folks to show the sight:
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 parson of our town,
To mend his barn, cut Baucis down;
At which 'tis hard to be believed
How much the other tree was griev'd,
Grew scrubbed, dy’d a-top, was stunted;
So the next parson stubb’d and burnt it.

A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING. 1709.

Now hardly here and there an hackney coach
Appearing, show'd the ruddy morn's approach.
Now Betty from her master's bed had flown,
And softly stole to discompose her own. -
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had par'd the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirl’d her mop with dext'rous airs,
Prepar'd to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps began to trace
The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal-man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drown'd in shriller notes of chimney-sweep.
Duns at his Lordship's gate began to meet;
And brick-dust Moll had scream'd through half the
The turnkey now his flock returning sees, [street.
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees:
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.

A DESCRIPTION OF A CITE SHOWER.

IN IMITATION of virgil's Georgics. 1710.

Careful observers may foretel the hour
(By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower.
While rain depends, the pensive cat gives o'er
Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more.
Returning home at night, you'll find the sink
Strike your offending sense with double stink.
If you be wise, then go not far to dine;
You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine.
A coming shower your shooting corns presage,
Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage.
Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen;
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,
That swill'd more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope:
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean :
You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she, singing, still whirls on the mop

Not yet the dust had shunn'd th’ unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life;
And, wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade 2
Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain :
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The templar spruce, while every spout's abroach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck’d-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed:
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box’d in a chair, the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through)
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison'd hero quaked for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filths of all hues and odours seem to tell
What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force,
From Smithfield or St. "Pulchre's shape their course,
And in huge confluence join’d at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn-bridge.
Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and
blood, [mud,
Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down
the flood.

HORACE, BOOK I. EP. WII.

ADDRESSED TO THE EARL of oxford. 1713.

Harley, the nation's great support,
Returning home one day from court,
(His mind with public cares possess'd,
All Europe's business in his breast)
Observ'd a parson near Whitehall
Cheapening old authors on a stall.
The priest was pretty well in case,
And show'd some humour in his face;
Look'd with an easy, careless mien,
A perfect stranger to the spleen;
Of size that might a pulpit fill,
But more inclining to sit still.
My Lord (who if a man may say 't,
Love" mischief better than his meat)

Was now dispos'd to crack a jest,
And bid friend Lewis go in quest,
(This Lewis is a cunning shaver,
And very much in Harley’s favour)
In quest who might this parson be,
What was his name, of what degree;
If possible, to learn his story,
And whether he were Whig or Tory.
Lewis his patron's humour knows,
Away upon his errand goes,
And quickly did the matter sift;
Found out that it was Doctor Swift,
A clergyman of special note
For shunning those of his own coat;
Which made his brethren of the gown
Take care betimes to run him down :
No libertine, nor over nice,
Addicted to no sort of vice,
Went where he pleas'd, said what he thought;
Not rich, but ow’d no man a groat:
In state opinions à-la-mode,
He hated Wharton like a toad,
Had given the faction many a wound,
And libel'd all the junto round;
Kept company with men of wit,
Who often father'd what he writ:
His works were hawk'd in every street,
But seldom rose above a sheet:
Of late indeed the paper-stamp
Did very much his genius cramp :
And since he could not spend his fire,
He now intended to retire.
Said Harley, “I desire to know
From his own mouth if this be so;
Step to the Doctor straight, and say,
I'd have him dine with me to-day.”
Swift seem'd to wonder what he meant,
Nor would believe my Lord had sent;
So never offer'd once to stir;
But coldly said, “Your servant, sir!”
“Does he refuse me?” Harley cry'd ;
“He does, with insolence and pride.”
Some few days after, Harley spies
The Doctor fasten’d by the eyes
At Charing-cross among the rout,
Where painted monsters are hung out;
He pull'd the string, and stopt his coach,
Beckoning the Doctor to approach.
Swift, who could neither fly nor hide,
Came sneaking to the chariot side,
And offer'd many a lame excuse:
He never meant the least abuse—
“My Lord—the honour you design'd—
Extremely proud—but I had din'd—
I'm sure I never should neglect—
No man alive has more respect—”
“Well, I shall think of that no more,
If you’ll be sure to come at four.”
The Doctor now obeys the summons,
Likes both his company and commons;
Displays his talent, sits till ten;
Next day invited comes again; -

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