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 and elegies to Chloris, Might raise a house about two stories; A lyric ode would slate; a catch Would tile; an epigram would thatch. Now Poets feel this art is lost, Both to their own and landlord's cost. Not one of all the tuneful throng Can hire a lodging for a song. For Jove consider'd well the case, That poets were a numerous race; And if they all had power to build, The earth would very soon be fill'd: Materials would be quickly spent, And houses would not give a rent. The God of Wealth was therefore made Sole patron of the building trade; Leaving to wits the spacious air, With license to build castles there: In right whereof their old pretence To lodge in garrets comes from thence. There is a worm by Phoebus bred, By leaves of mulberry is fed, Which unprovided where to dwell, Conforms itself to weave a cell; Then curious hands this texture take, And for themselves fine garments make. Meantime a pair of awkward things Grow to his back instead of wings; He flutters when he thinks he flies, Then sheds about his spawn and dies. Just such an insect of the age Is he that scribbles for the stage; His birth he does from Phoebus raise, And feeds upon imagin'd bays; Throws all his wit and hours away In twisting up an ill spun Play: This gives him lodging and provides A stock of tawdry shift besides. With the unravell'd shreds of which The under wits adorn their speech: And now he spreads his little fans, (For all the Muses Geese are Swans) And borne on Fancy's pinions, thinks He soars sublimest when he sinks: But scatt'ring round his fly-blows, dies; Whence broods of insect-poets rise. Premising thus, in modern way, The greater part I have to say; Sing, Muse, the house of Poet Van, In higher strain than we began. Van (for 'tis fit the reader know it) Is both a Herald and a Poet; No wonder then if nicely skill'd In each capacity 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 poets, if they had their due, By ancient right are builders too: This made him to Apollo pray For leave to build--the poets way. His prayer was granted, for the God Consented with the usual nod. After hard throes of many a day Van was delivered of a play, Which in due time brought forth a house, Just as the mountain did the mouse. One story high, one postern door, And one small chamber on a floor, Born like a phoenix from the flame: But neither bulk nor shape the same; 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, nor juice. So modern rhymers strive to blast The poetry of ages past; Which, having wisely overthrown, They from its ruins build their own.