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For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I must not go abroad—and cannot be at home.
Bleft be that focial pow'r, the first who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
'Twas VENUS fure; for by their faithful aid
The whifp'ring lover meets the blushing maid:
From folitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice fupper, or the sprightly ball:
Speed the foft fummons of the gay and fair,
From diftant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor's fquare;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the parade, the fenate, or the Tower.

Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily leffon, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye ftand, difpos'd in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glafs adorn,
The dismal void with heart-felt fhame we mourn;
Conscious neglect infpires a fullen gloom,

And brooding fadnefs fills the flighted room.

If but fome happier female's card I've seen, I fwell with rage, or ficken with the spleen; While artful pride conceals the bursting tear, With fome forc'd banter or affected fneer:

But

But now grown defp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curfe the ball, the d--fs, and the pope.
And as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
Tax it! ye greedy minifters, I cry.

How fhall I feel, when Sol refigns his light

To this proud fplendid goddess of the night!

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Then when her aukward guests in measure beat

The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in folitude shall then poffess.
My tortur'd mind, or foften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can fuggeft
Will footh the tumults of my raging breast.
(For Envy's loft amid the numerous train,
And hiffes with her hundred fnakes in vain)
Though with contempt each defpicable foul
Singly I view, I must revere the whole.

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The methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though fingle happy, though alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (fhe thinks not of a crowd)
And if the ever feels a vap'rish qualm,
Some* drop of honey, or fome holy balm,
The pious prophet of her fect diftils,
And her pure soul seraphic rapture fills;

The title of a book of modern devotion.

Grace

Grace fhines around her with ferenest beams,
And whifp'ring W*** prompts her golden dreams.
Far other dreams my fenfual foul employ,

While conscious nature taftes unholy joy :
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And clafp the regimentals in my arms,

To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye foft illufions, dear deceits arise;

Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To diftant quarters 'midft the Highland fnow:
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in smoak'd tap'stry faded DIDO mourns;
To fome affembly in a country town,

And meet the colonel — in a parfon's gown -

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O! could I on my waking brain impose,

Or but forget at least my present woes !
Forget 'em-how ! -each rattling coach fuggefts.
The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.
To vifit-were to publish my disgrace;
To meet the spleen in every other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their fcorn!
For once, to read with this distemper'd brain,
Evʼn modern novels lend their aid in vain.

My

My MANDOLINE-what place can music find
Amid the difcord of my restless mind?

How shall I waste this time which slowly flies!
How lull to flumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,-N*** bas murder'd fleep.

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The FA KEER: A TALE.

By the Same.

FAKEER (a religious well known in the Eaft,
Not much like a parfon, ftill lefs 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 plac'd?
Did he fasten a chain to his leg or his waift?
No. His holiness rofe to this fovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.
A wealthy

A wealthy young Indian, approaching the fhrine, Thus in banter accofts the prophetic divine. This tribute accept for your int'reft with FO,

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Whom with torture you ferve, and whose will
To your fuppliant disclose his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.
FAKEER.

Let me first know your merits.

INDIAN.

I ftrive to be just :

To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust:
In religion I duly observe every form:

With an 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 fpeak to your rev'rence's tail
But mine has no tafte for a ten-penny nail.

FAKEER.

Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you prefer'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.

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