Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-- This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-- (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, To raise the spirits and reform the juices, --Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours), The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter, Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter-- Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, I wot not--but the Sultaun never laugh'd, Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy; In his long list of melancholies, mad, Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had. Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried, As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside, And then in solemn accent spoke their doom, "His majesty is very far from well." Then each to work with his specific fell; The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily. More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front assail, and some the rear; Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor, Some hint about a bowstring or a saber. There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leeches. Then was the council call'd--by their advice (They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice, And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders) Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, To call a sort of Eastern Parliament Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-- Such have the Persians at this very day, My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;-- I'm not prepared to show in this slight song That to Serendib the same forms belong-- E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong. The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar, Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-- "The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death, Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle! This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day, Shall from his kindled bosom flit away, When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round, And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground. Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-- And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons!" The Riots who attended in their places (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.