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[2] and a Poet; No wonder then if nicely skill'd In both capacities to build. As Herald, he can in a day Repair a house gone to decay; Or, by achievements, arms, device, Erect a new one in a trice; And as a poet, he has skill To build in speculation still. "Great Jove!" he cried, "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 smiled, 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. So Van resolved to write a farce; But, well perceiving wit was scarce, With cunning that defect supplies: Takes a French play as lawful prize;[3] Steals thence his plot and ev'ry joke, Not 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' top 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'experienced 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 fift. 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; Looked high and low, walk'd often round; But no such house was to be found. One asks the watermen hard by,
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