WHAT mortal burns not with the love of fame?
Some write, some fight, some eat themselves a name.
For some beau Frightful haunts each public place,
And grows conspicious for — his ugly face.
Laura, the rural circle's constant boast,
Sighs for the Mall, nor sleeps till she's a toast.
The priestling, proud of doctrine not his own,
Usurps a scarf, and longs to preach in town.
Ev'n Westley's saints, whose cant has fill'd the nation,
Toil more for fame, I trow, than reformation.