V—'s
HOUSE
Built
from
the
Ruins
of
White-Hall
that
was
Burnt
.
Written
,
1703.
In
Times
of
Old
,
when
Time
was
Young
,
And
Poets
their
own
Verses
Sung
,
A
Verse
could
draw
a
Stone
or
Beam
That
now
would
overload
a
Team
;
Lead
'em
a
Dance
of
many
a
Mile
,
Then
rear
'em
to
a
goodly
Pile
.
Each
Number
had
it's
diff'rent
Pow'r
;
Heroick
Strains
could
build
a
Tow'r
;
Sonnets
,
or
Elogies
to
Chloris
Might
raise
a
House
about
two
Stories
;
A
Lyrick
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
num'rous
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
Garrats
,
comes
from
thence
.
PREMISING
thus
in
Modern
way
The
better
Half
we
had
to
say
;
Sing
Muse
the
House
of
Poet
V—
In
higher
Strains
than
we
began
.
V—
(
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
House
gone
to
Decay
,
Or
by
Atchivement
,
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
V—
he
knew
his
Talent
best
,
And
left
the
Choice
to
his
own
Breast
.
So
V—
resolv'd
to
write
a
Farce
,
But
well
perceiving
Wit
was
scarce
,
With
Cunning
that
Defect
supplies
,
Takes
a
French
Play
as
lawful
Prize
,
Steals
thence
his
Plot
,
and
ev'ry
Joke
,
Not
once
suspecting
,
Jove
would
Smoak
,
And
,
(
like
a
Wag
)
sat
down
to
Write
,
Would
whisper
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
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
butst
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
Ayd
;
Th'
experienc't
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't
,
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
V—
:
Lookt
high
and
low
,
walkt
often
round
,
But
no
such
House
was
to
be
found
;
One
asks
the
Watermen
hard
by
,
Where
may
the
Poets
Place
ly
?
Another
,
of
the
Thames
enquires
,
If
he
has
seen
its
gilded
Spires
.
At
length
they
in
the
Rubbish
spy
A
Thing
resembling
a
Goose
Py
,
Farther
in
haste
the
Poets
throng
,
And
gaze
in
silent
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
ease
Take
Journies
in
it
like
a
Chaise
;
Or
in
a
Boat
when
e're
thou
wilt
Canst
make
it
serve
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
,
art
Born
again
;
Born
like
a
Phoenix
from
the
Flame
,
But
neither
Bulk
,
nor
Shape
the
same
:
As
Animals
of
largest
Size
Corrupt
to
Maggots
,
Worms
and
Flyes
.
A
Type
of
Modern
Wit
and
Style
,
The
Rubbish
of
an
Antient
Pile
.
So
Chymists
boast
they
have
a
Pow'r
From
the
dead
Ashes
of
a
Flow'r
Some
faint
Resemblance
to
produce
,
But
not
the
Virtue
,
Tast
or
Juice
.
So
Modern
Rimers
wisely
Blast
The
Poetry
of
Ages
past
,
Which
after
they
have
overthrown
,
They
from
its
Ruins
build
their
own
.