BUILT FROM THE RUINS OF WHITEHALL THAT WAS BURNT, 1703

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 ’em a dance of many a mile,
Then rear ’em to a goodly pile. 
Each number had its diff’rent 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,
Observed they grew a numerous race;
And should they build as fast as write,
’Twould ruin undertakers quite. 
This evil, therefore, to prevent,
He wisely changed their element: 
On earth the God of Wealth was made
Sole patron of the building trade;
Leaving the Wits the spacious air,
With license to build castles there: 
And ’tis conceived 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[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;