Doom'd as a flave to daily toil,
And plunder'd of his Indian fpoil,
Sore griev'd he, captive at Algiers,
And curs'd Sir Bel and all his
peers.
Now fo it happ'd, that wicked sprite
(In teafing dames who took delight)
E'en at that time had made his prey
The chief Sultana of the Dey:
And all Algiers was in a riot
To calm her grief and keep her quiet.
But foon the doctor's art was known:
For rumour e'en from Delhi's throne
By fea and land his steps had trac'd,
And all his late atchievments blaz'd ?
Procefs at Algiers is but fhort,
They feize the doctor, bring to court,
And strait command him, on his life,
To cure the gracious fovereign's wife.
What could be done? Should he refufe,
The mutes prefent the ready noofe ;
And should he tempt the wearied fiend,
He fear'd at least as bad an end.
But the nice matter weighing well,
He thought it best to trust Sir Bel;
For mutes will often have their way,
Before they hear what you've to fay;
And Bel had never yet been tried,
How far he might be mollified.
So to the Dey the trembling quack,
In private, told what he should lack;
And labour'd to contrive a fpell,
So fave himself, and trick Sir Bel.
The time arriv'd: the moody queen
High on an ample ftage was feen:
Juft by, in ftate, appear'd the Dey,
With mutes and guards in just array;
And all Algiers the place furrounded,
To fee the cunning imp dumbfounded.
The quack, not eager to engage,
Was fomething loath to mount the stage,
And trembl'd, for his heart mifgave him,
His deep laid fcheme might fail to fave him.
Then, close befide the dame poffefs'd,
In whispers he the fiend address'd,
And his quandary reprefented-
How by the corfair circumvented,
No choice was left him, but to lose
His life by Bel or by the noose;
And urg'd full many a moving plea
To foothe the fiend to clemency:
In vain he wept, in vain he pray'd ;
The fullen devil fhook his head :
In fuch a cafe 'twas never heard
That any Devil broke his word:
And fuch a noun as clemency
Was not in Hell's vocab'lary.
Now Bel prepar'd the coup de grace;
Death ftar'd the doctor in the face;
When (as the Dey had given command,
If e'er the quack fhould wave his hand)
A furious knocking fhook the gate,
Behind the royal chair of state;
And thrill pip'd foot boys bawl'd aloud,
Room for the coach there! through the crowd:
The mob fall back-they squeeze, they stare,
The horfes kick, the lacquies fwear,
Nor e'er had Algiers known before
Such ton, fuch splendour, fuch uproar.
Cries Bel," How prodigal the age is
"In fervants, trappings, equipages,
"And liv'ries, gold and filver clinquant-
"My heart mifgives me when I think on't,
"Zounds! what a tumult-1 much wonder
"Who 'tis that makes the racket yonder.
"Here quack-canft tell me whence yon noife is,
"Yon hateful jar of women's voices?
"Don't trifle with me on your life."
The Doctor grinn'd," Sir, 'tis your wife
"Your wife, who fearching far and near
"To clafp again her only dear."
Up rofe the liberated queen:
For Bel had left her found and clean;
Heard nought the doctor had to say,
But flunk invisible away;
Forgot to kill the queen or quack,
Thinking his wife was at his back,
Nor ftay'd his flight, nor dropp'd his fears,
'Till feas lay 'twixt him and Agiers.
But whither went this bufy fiend,
In mere furmise our search must end :
'Tis life, where'er he chufe to dwell,
The place will fhew fome traits of Hell;
His foft'ring influence there will nourish
The deadly fins, and make them flourish h;
Where'er Sir Bel has ta'en his stand,
Murder and fraud will mark that land;
Hypocrify, with double tongue;
Courage, from ghastly famine sprung;
Corruption, that proclaims its price;
Envy, and griping avarice;
Ambition, that for plunder gapes;
And cruelty in all her fhapes,
Will rule the realm wherever lurks
This patron of fatanic works.
But as we know no guilty foil,
Which all thefe deadly fins defile,
'Tis vain to puzzle where he tarries; But certainly it is not at Paris.*
The place of the damn'd is at Paris or Rome, How happy for us that it is not at home.
HE late season has been fo kindly to the vegetation of imperial titles that I, for one, begin to give much more eredit than I used to do to thofe effays on the marvellous which pafs under the name of books of Chivalry. "A Knight Errant is one whom to day you fhall fee well curried and bastinadoed, and to-morrow he fhall forthwith become an Emperor." So fudden a transformation did formerly appear very unaccountable to all fober people; but we now fee this definition reduced into practice, and the wonder ceases: a man is well curried, baftinadoed, and bullied, and robbed to-day; and to morrow he, ex mèro motu, no one knows why or where fore, puts on a new fuit of titles with as much eafe, and full as becomingly, as many people quarter on their arms what they have no fort of right to by the laws of Heral dry, or as others throw in a few furnames, ad libitum, to give weight to their own fimple addition.
In a company where I was the other day, the converfa. tion ran upon the late changes in the imperial world. My neighbour Thorn, who is Lord of the Manor of Morland, declared that at his next court leet, the fteward fhould make out a patent, investing him and his heirs for ever with the title of Emperor of Morland, and Grand Duke of all the farms which in the aggregate compofe his estate : and
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