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My MANDOLINE-what place can mufic find
Amid the difcord of my reftlefs mind?

How fhall I waste this time which flowly flies!
How lull to flumber my reluctant eyes s!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alik,-NORFOLK has murder'd fleep.

The FAKE ER: A TALE.

BY THE SAME.

FAKEER (a religious well known in the East,

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Not much like a parfon, ftill less like a priest)

With no canting, no fly jefuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocrify, learning, or parts,
By a happy refinement in mortification,

Grew the oracle, faint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this esteem to acquire?

Did he torture his head or his bofom with fire?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd?
Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waift?
No. His holinefs rofe to his fovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.!
A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,
Thus in banter accosts the prophetic divine:
This tribute accept for your int'reft with FO,

Whom with torture you ferve, and whofe will you must

know:

Το

To your fuppliant difclofe his immortal decrees
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me,

FAKEER.

Let me first know

your merits.

INDIAN.

I strive to be just e

To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trufk:
In religion I duly obferve every form:

With a heart to my country devoted and warm :
I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich-

FAKEER.

But how many nails do you run in your breech?
INDIAN.

With fubmiffion I speak to your rev'rence's tail;
But mine has no taste for a tenpenny nail.

FAKEER.

Well! I'll pray to our prophet, and get you preferr'd;
Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.
With me in the thirtieth your feat to obtain,

You must qualify duly with hunger and pain.
INDIAN.

With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue !
Can fuch wretches as you give to madness a vogue!
Though the priesthood of FO on the vulgar impose,
By fquinting whole years at the end of their nose,
Though with cruel devices of mortification
They adore a vain idol of modern creation,

Does

Does the God of the heav'ns fuch a fervice direct?
Can his mercy approve a felf-punishing fect?

Will his wisdom be worship'd with chains and with nails?
Or e'er look for his rites in your noses and tails?
Come along to my house, and these penances leave,
Give your belly a feaft, and your breech a reprieve.
This reafoning unhing'd each fanatical notion;
And stagger'd our faint in his chair of promotion.
At length with reluctance he rofe from his feat;
And refigning his nails and his fame for retreat,
Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd:
The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.
To live undistinguish'd to him was the pain,
An existence unnotic'd he could not fuftain.
In retirement he figh'd for the fame-giving chair,
For the crowd to admire him, to rev'rence and stare:
No endearments of pleasure and ease could prevail;
He the faintship refum'd, and new larded his tail.

Our FAKEER reprefents all the vot❜ries of fame ;
Their ideas, their means, and their end is the fame:
The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,
With their gallantry, lewdnefs, the bottle and dice;
The poets, the critics, the metaphyficians,
The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;
The ftatefman begirt with th' importunate ring,
(I had almost compleated my lift with the king);
All labour alike to illuftrate my tale;

All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.

Το

To Mr.

WHITE HEAD,

On his being made POET LAUREAT.

'T

BY THE SAME.

1757.

IS fo-though we're furpris'd to hear it:
The laurel is bestow'd on merit.

Hów hufh'd is every envious voice!
Confounded by so just a choice,
Though by prescriptive right prepar'd

To libel the selected bard.

But as you fee the ftatefman's fate
In this our democratic state,

Whom virtue strives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card;
You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us :
For each Aonian politician
(Whofe element is oppofition),
Will fhew how greatly they furpafs us
In gall and wormwood at Parnaffus.

Thus as the fame detracting fpirit
Attends on all diftinguifh'd merit,
VOL. VI.

Y

When

When 'tis your turn, obferve, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.
Suppose that laurel on your brow,
For cyprefs chang'd, funereal bough!
See all things take a diff'rent turn!
The very critics fweetly mourn,:
And leave their fatire's pois'nous sting
In plaintive elegies to fing:.
With folemn threnody and dirge
Conduct you to Elyfium's verge.
At Westminster the furplic'd dean
The fad but honourable scene
Prepares. The well-attended herse
Bears you amid the kings of verfe.
Each rite obferv'd, each duty paid,
Your fame on marble is difplay'd,
With fymbols which your genius fuit,
The mask, the buskin, and the flute;
The laurel crown aloft is hung;

And o'er the fculptur'd lyre unftrung
Sad allegoric figures leaning-

(How folks will gape to find their meaning!)
And a long epitaph is spread,

Which happy You will never read.
But hold-The change is fo inviting
I own, I tremble while I'm writing,

Yet,

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