The premises tenderly confider'd, I defire your excellencies protection,

And that I may have a share in next Sunday's collection;

And, over and above, that I may have your excellencies letter,

With an order for the chaplain aforefaid, 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, fhall ever pray.

Lady

a

Lady Betty Berkeley, finding in the author's room fome verfes unfinished, underwrit a ftanza of her own with raillery upon him, which gave occafion to this Ballad, written by the author in a counterfeit hand, as if a third perfon had done it.

Written in the Year 1703.

To the tune of The Cutpurfe.

I.

ONCE on a time, as old ftories rehearse,

A friar would needs fhew his talent in Latin;

But was forely put to't in the midft ofa verfe, Because he could find no word to come pat in:

Then all in the place

He left a void space,

And fo went to bed in a defperate cafe: When behold the next morning a wonderful riddle !

He found it was strangely fill'd up in the middle.

Chorus. Let censuring criticks then think what they lift on't;

Who wou'd not write verfes with fuch an affiftant?

• Thefe verfes are called A may be found among the postballad on the game of traffic, and humous poetry. Vol. VII.

II.

BALLAD TO LADY BETTY BERKELEY. 77

II.

This put me the friar into an amazement: For he wifely confider'd it must be a sprite, That came through the key-hole, or in at the cafement;

And it needs must be one that could both read and write:

Yet he did not know

If it were friend or foe,

Or whether it came from above or below: Howe'er, is was civil in angel or elf, For he ne'er could have fill'd it fo well of himself.

Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

III.

Even fo mafter doctor hath puzzledhis brains In making a ballad but was at a ftand: He had mix'd little wit with a great deal of pains;

When he found a new help from invi-
fible hand.

Then good doctor Swift,
Pay thanks for the gift,

For you freely muft own you were at a

dead lift:

And,

And, though fome malicious young spirit did do't,

You may know by the hand it had no cloven foot.

Cho. Let cenfuring, etc.

VANBRUGH's HOUSE,

Built from the ruins of Whitehall that was burnt.

IN

N times of old, when time was young, And poets their own verses sung, A verfe could draw a ftone or beam, That now would over-load a team; Lead them a dance of many a mile, Then rear them to a goodly pile. Each number had its diff'rent pow'r : Heroick ftrains could build a tow'r; Sonnets, or elegies to Chloris, Might raise a house about two stories; A lyrick ode wou'd flate; a catch Wou'd tile; an epigram wou'd thatch. But, to their own or landlord's coft, Now poets feel this art is loft. Not one of all our tuneful throng Can raise a lodging for a song : For Jove confider'd well the cafe, Obferv'd they grew a num'rous race;

And,

And, fhou'd they build as fast as write,
'Twould ruin undertakers quite.
This evil therefore to prevent,
He wifely chang'd their element:
On earth the God of wealth was made
Sole patron of the building trade;
Leaving the wits the fpacious air,
With licence to build caftles there:
And 'tis conceiv'd, their old pretence
To lodge in garrets comes from thence.
Premifing 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 skill'd
In both capacities to build.
As herald, he can in a day ·
Repair a house gone to decay;
Or by atchievements, arms, device,
Erect a new one in a trice:
And as a poet, he has skill
To build in fpeculation still.
Great Jove! he cry'd, the art restore
To build by verse as heretofore,

i