Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/54

42 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 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 achievement, 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 Van, he knew his talent best, And left the choice to his own breast. So Van 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 every joke, Not once suspecting Jove would smoke; And (like a wag set down to write) Would whisper to himself, a bite. Then,