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High in demand, though lowly in pretence,
Turn eastward now, and Fancy shall apply
weak sight her telescopic eye.
The bramin kindles on his own bare head
The sacred fire, self-torturing his trade;
Your sentence and mine differ. What's a name?
I say the bramin has the fairer claim.
If suff'rings, Scripture no where recommends,
Devis'd by self to answer selfish ends,
Give saintship, then all Europe must agree
Ten starv'ling hermits suffer less than he.
The truth is (if the truth may suit your ear,
Pride may be pamper'd, while the flesh grows lean; Humility may clothe an English dean;
That grace was Cowper's-his, confess'd by all-
His palace, and his lackeys, and "My Lord,"
But why before us, protestants, produce An Indian mystic, or a French recluse? Their sin is plain; but what have we to fear, Reform'd and well instructed? You shall hear. Yon ancient prude, whose wither'd features show She might be young some forty years ago,
Her elbows pinion'd close upon her hips,
Her head erect, her fan upon
Her eyebrows arch'd, her eyes both gone astray, To watch yon am'rous couple in their play, With bony and unkerchief'd neck defies
The rude inclemency of wintry skies,
And sails with lappet-head, and mincing airs,
She yet allows herself that boy behind;
Which future pages yet are doom'd to share,
And hides his hands, to keep his fingers warm. She, half an angel in her own account, Doubts not hereafter with the saints to mount, Though not a grace appears on strictest search, But that she fasts, and item, goes to church.
Conscious of age she recollects her youth,
And tells, not always with an eye to truth,
Who spann'd her waist, and who, where'er he
Scrawl'd upon glass miss Bridget's lovely name;
Who stole her slipper, fill'd it with tokay,
In faithful mem'ry she records the crimes
Laughs at the reputations she has torn,
And holds them dangling at arm's length in scorn. Such are the fruits of sanctimonious pride,
Of malice fed while flesh is mortified;
Take, Madam, the reward of all your pray'rs, Where hermits and where bramins meet with theirs; Your portion is with them-Nay, never frown, But, if you please, some fathoms lower down. 170 Artist attend-your brushes and your paintProduce them-take a chair-now draw a saint.
Oh sorrowful and sad! the streaming tears
Is this a saint? Throw tints and all away-
Will weep indeed, and heave a pitying groan,
For others' woes, but smiles upon