The Spinning-House of the Future

[F]Inns of Court Rifle Volunteers.

[G]Dante, Par. xviii. 21.

"Cada puta hile."—Don Quixote, i. 46.

Withoutmy dinner here I lie,And all because that proctorWith her stout bull-dogs passed, and IMocked her.For Clara is at Girton too,That dragon is her tutor,I threatened once what I would do,Shoot her.Her life by Clara's tears was saved,Wherefore she doth detest me,And hither hungry and unshavedPressed me.I would that I could have commencedAn action 'gainst that devil,Like that once brought by Kemp againstNeville.[H]To her I owe the statute framedThat one against it sinningShould dwell within the house that's namedSpinning.Ah me! it runs in sections three:Who speaks to Girton studentIs fined to teach him how to bePrudent.Who loves a Girton girl must doTwelve months on bread and water,From a digestive point of viewSlaughter.Who kisses her commits a crimeBy hanging expiated,And she in tears must spend her timeGated.Would that at Oxford I had been,At Balliol or at Merton,And then I never should have seenGirton.Go down I must, no more shall IAnd Clara cross the same bridge;Still, Granta, art thou her and myCambridge.Some day on this her eyes may light,This doggerel stiff and jointless,And she may own it is not quitePointless.

Withoutmy dinner here I lie,And all because that proctorWith her stout bull-dogs passed, and IMocked her.

For Clara is at Girton too,That dragon is her tutor,I threatened once what I would do,Shoot her.

Her life by Clara's tears was saved,Wherefore she doth detest me,And hither hungry and unshavedPressed me.

I would that I could have commencedAn action 'gainst that devil,Like that once brought by Kemp againstNeville.[H]

To her I owe the statute framedThat one against it sinningShould dwell within the house that's namedSpinning.

Ah me! it runs in sections three:Who speaks to Girton studentIs fined to teach him how to bePrudent.

Who loves a Girton girl must doTwelve months on bread and water,From a digestive point of viewSlaughter.

Who kisses her commits a crimeBy hanging expiated,And she in tears must spend her timeGated.

Would that at Oxford I had been,At Balliol or at Merton,And then I never should have seenGirton.

Go down I must, no more shall IAnd Clara cross the same bridge;Still, Granta, art thou her and myCambridge.

Some day on this her eyes may light,This doggerel stiff and jointless,And she may own it is not quitePointless.

[H]An action brought in 1861 by a dressmaker at Cambridge against the Vice-Chancellor for false imprisonment in the Spinning-House (the University prison). The Court of Common Pleas heldinter aliathat no action lies against a judge for a judicial decision on a matter within his jurisdiction (10 Common Bench Reports, New Series, 523).

Wesat in the jury-box, twelve were we all,And the clock was just pointing to ten in the hall,His Lordship he bowed to the jury, and weBowed back to his Lordship as gravely as he.The case ofDe Wellerv.Joneswas the first,And we all settled down and prepared for the worstWhen old Smithers, Q.C., began slowly to preachOf a promise of marriage and action for breach.A barmaid the plaintiff was, wondrous the skillWherewith she was wont her tall tankards to fill,The defendant, a publican, sought for his brideSuch a paragon, urged by professional pride.But the course of true love ran no smoother for herThan the Pas de Calais or the bark of a fir,The defendant discovered a widow with goldIn the bank and the plaintiff was left in the cold.An hour Smithers spoke, and he said that the heartOf the plaintiff at Jones's fell touch flew apart,But a cheque for a thousand might help to repairThe destruction effected by love and despair.Miss de Weller was called, and in ladylike tonesShe described all the injury suffered from Jones,How he called her at first "Angelina," and thisSoon cooled to "Miss Weller," and lastly to "Miss."But the jury were shaken a little when GoreCross-examined about her engagements before,For Jones was the sixth of the strings to her bowAnd with five other verdicts she solaced her woe.Re-examined by Smithers, she won us again,For the tears of a maid are a terror to men,Then his Lordship awoke from his nap and explainedHow love that is frequent is love that is feigned.Miss de Weller looked daggers, and under the paintOf her cheeks she grew pale and fell down in a faint,She played her trump-card in the late afternoon,For damages satisfy girls who can swoon.Till she fainted most thought that a farthing would do,Though I was in favour of pounds—one or two;But after the faint—and shewasso well dressed—At a hundred the void in her heart was assessed.

Wesat in the jury-box, twelve were we all,And the clock was just pointing to ten in the hall,His Lordship he bowed to the jury, and weBowed back to his Lordship as gravely as he.

The case ofDe Wellerv.Joneswas the first,And we all settled down and prepared for the worstWhen old Smithers, Q.C., began slowly to preachOf a promise of marriage and action for breach.

A barmaid the plaintiff was, wondrous the skillWherewith she was wont her tall tankards to fill,The defendant, a publican, sought for his brideSuch a paragon, urged by professional pride.

But the course of true love ran no smoother for herThan the Pas de Calais or the bark of a fir,The defendant discovered a widow with goldIn the bank and the plaintiff was left in the cold.

An hour Smithers spoke, and he said that the heartOf the plaintiff at Jones's fell touch flew apart,But a cheque for a thousand might help to repairThe destruction effected by love and despair.

Miss de Weller was called, and in ladylike tonesShe described all the injury suffered from Jones,How he called her at first "Angelina," and thisSoon cooled to "Miss Weller," and lastly to "Miss."

But the jury were shaken a little when GoreCross-examined about her engagements before,For Jones was the sixth of the strings to her bowAnd with five other verdicts she solaced her woe.

Re-examined by Smithers, she won us again,For the tears of a maid are a terror to men,Then his Lordship awoke from his nap and explainedHow love that is frequent is love that is feigned.

Miss de Weller looked daggers, and under the paintOf her cheeks she grew pale and fell down in a faint,She played her trump-card in the late afternoon,For damages satisfy girls who can swoon.

Till she fainted most thought that a farthing would do,Though I was in favour of pounds—one or two;But after the faint—and shewasso well dressed—At a hundred the void in her heart was assessed.

Archilochus.Neobule, yesternightSaw I thee in beauty dight,On thy head a myrtle sprayCast its shadow as the dayBy the stars was put to flight.Twining on thy temples whiteRoses gave the myrtle light,Sign thou wilt not say me nay,Neobule.Loosened from its coilèd heightStreamed thy hair in thy despiteOn thy shoulders soft to strayAnd to bid the bard essayNever but of thee to write,Neobule.

Archilochus.

Neobule, yesternightSaw I thee in beauty dight,On thy head a myrtle sprayCast its shadow as the dayBy the stars was put to flight.Twining on thy temples whiteRoses gave the myrtle light,Sign thou wilt not say me nay,Neobule.Loosened from its coilèd heightStreamed thy hair in thy despiteOn thy shoulders soft to strayAnd to bid the bard essayNever but of thee to write,Neobule.

Neobule.Sorry poet, who dost dareCast bold glances on my hair,Let thy most presumptuous eyesSeek another enterprise,Ceasing now to linger there.Hearken, I can tell thee whereGrow the bushes that will spareRods to teach thee humbler guise,Sorry poet.Know I not that I am fair?Need thy halting verse declareWhat my mirror daily cries?Rid me of thy silly sighs,Rid me of thy hateful stare,Sorry poet.

Neobule.

Sorry poet, who dost dareCast bold glances on my hair,Let thy most presumptuous eyesSeek another enterprise,Ceasing now to linger there.Hearken, I can tell thee whereGrow the bushes that will spareRods to teach thee humbler guise,Sorry poet.Know I not that I am fair?Need thy halting verse declareWhat my mirror daily cries?Rid me of thy silly sighs,Rid me of thy hateful stare,Sorry poet.

Archilochus.Neobule, poets seeDreams of things that are to be.Vengeance is the poet's trade,Come, iambus, to my aid'Gainst the fools who scoff at me.All the world will laugh with gleeWhen they mark my verses freeGrasp thee like a pillory,And thy scorn with scorn repaid,Neobule.E'en in death thou canst not fleeFrom the doom the Fates decree.When my satire's keenest bladeCuts thee to the heart, fond maid,I shall laugh, but what of thee,Neobule?

Archilochus.

Neobule, poets seeDreams of things that are to be.Vengeance is the poet's trade,Come, iambus, to my aid'Gainst the fools who scoff at me.All the world will laugh with gleeWhen they mark my verses freeGrasp thee like a pillory,And thy scorn with scorn repaid,Neobule.E'en in death thou canst not fleeFrom the doom the Fates decree.When my satire's keenest bladeCuts thee to the heart, fond maid,I shall laugh, but what of thee,Neobule?

Thosebrave old days when King Abuse did reignWe sigh for, but we shall not see again.Then Eldon sowed the seed of equityThat grew to bounteous harvest, and with gleeA Bar of modest numbers shared the grain.Then lived the pleaders who could issues feign,Who blushed not to aver that France or SpainWas in the Ward of Chepe;[I]no more can beThose brave old days.O'er pauper settlements men fought amain,And golden guineas followed in their train,John Doe then flourished like a lusty tree,And Richard Roe brought many a noble fee,We mourn in unremunerated painThose brave old days.

O'er pauper settlements men fought amain,And golden guineas followed in their train,John Doe then flourished like a lusty tree,And Richard Roe brought many a noble fee,We mourn in unremunerated painThose brave old days.

[I]See, for instance, the well-known case ofMostynv.Fabrigas, in which the plaintiff declared that the defendant on the 1st of September, in the year 1771, made an assault upon the said plaintiff at Minorca, to wit, at London, in the parish of St. Mary-le-bow, in the Ward of Cheap.

Notin contempt but to our sport inclinedSmile on us, shades of Judges short and tallPortrayed on windows of the Temple Hall;There was a time that ye grave thoughts resigned,Then, warm with sack, the Serjeants' hearts waxed kind,In mirth Lords Keepers danced the galliard all,Not in contempt.Of pleasures past the shadows here we find,Gay strife on brighter swards we thus recall,Where maiden laughter winged the flying ball;Declare us, fair ones, with a merry mindNot in contempt.

Of pleasures past the shadows here we find,Gay strife on brighter swards we thus recall,Where maiden laughter winged the flying ball;Declare us, fair ones, with a merry mindNot in contempt.

(Spirit of Lord Eldon speaks)ThisEngland is gone staring mad,She hath abolished Chancery,[J]See the long lines of suitors, sadTo find themselves unwontedlyAfter one day of trial free.Pleading and seals have gone their way."I know," said I, "that after meToo quickly comes the evil day."

(Spirit of Lord Eldon speaks)

ThisEngland is gone staring mad,She hath abolished Chancery,[J]See the long lines of suitors, sadTo find themselves unwontedlyAfter one day of trial free.Pleading and seals have gone their way."I know," said I, "that after meToo quickly comes the evil day."

(Spirit of Lord Lyndhurst speaks)I was Chief Baron, and I hadA Court of Law and Equity,[K]The Courts at Westminster were cladWith ancient glory fair to see.Now County Courts have come to beExalted high on our decay,And every whit as good as we;Too quickly comes the evil day.

(Spirit of Lord Lyndhurst speaks)

I was Chief Baron, and I hadA Court of Law and Equity,[K]The Courts at Westminster were cladWith ancient glory fair to see.Now County Courts have come to beExalted high on our decay,And every whit as good as we;Too quickly comes the evil day.

(Shade of Butler speaks)In days of yore we used to padOur deeds with words of certainty;Alas! that now the office ladIs qualified to grant in fee!Lost is our old supremacy,Lost is the delicate displayOf learning onpur autre vie;Too quickly comes the evil day.

(Shade of Butler speaks)

In days of yore we used to padOur deeds with words of certainty;Alas! that now the office ladIs qualified to grant in fee!Lost is our old supremacy,Lost is the delicate displayOf learning onpur autre vie;Too quickly comes the evil day.

L'Envoi(The Three in Chorus)Thurlow, to thee we bend the knee,When law was law, then men were gay,'Tis down with port and up with tea,Too quickly comes the evil day.

L'Envoi

(The Three in Chorus)

Thurlow, to thee we bend the knee,When law was law, then men were gay,'Tis down with port and up with tea,Too quickly comes the evil day.

[J]The Court of Chancery was merged in the High Court of Justice in 1875.

[K]In the days of Lord Lyndhurst the old Court of Exchequer had equitable as well as common law jurisdiction.

Estomne jus forense quasi comœdia;Hic advocatus maximas partes agitLaudatus undique a procuratoribus,Labore vocis redditus ditissimus;Cui brevia nil forensis et quaestus valentSilenter ille spectat, at pro præmioFruitur quietus optime comœdia.

[The plaintiff was committed to the Fleet Prison on Feb. 8, 1596, by order of the Lord Keeper, for drawing a replication of sixscore sheets containing much impertinent matter which might well have been contained in sixteen. On Feb. 10 the Lord Keeper ordered that on the following Saturday the Warden of the Fleet should cut a hole through the replication, and put the plaintiff's head through the hole and let it hang about his shoulders with the written side outwards, and lead the plaintiff bareheaded and barefaced round about Westminster Hall, and show him at the bar of all the courts, and so back to the Fleet.—Abridged from Spence'sEquitable Jurisdiction, vol. i. p. 376.]

'GainstWeldon Mylward files a bill,But doth his replication fillWith scandalous and idle matter,That would disgrace the maddest hatter.Woe is me for Mylward!'Twas sixscore sheets, it might have beenContained, and amply, in sixteen;So after that the court hath risenMust Mylward Fleetward go to prison.Woe is me for Mylward!And two days afterwards 'tis meetThat by the Warden of the FleetHe be led on in slow progressionThrough every court that sits in session.Woe is me for Mylward!The pleading writ with words so fairMust Mylward like a tabard wear,A hole therein, the Warden cuts it,A head put through it, Mylward puts it.Woe is me for Mylward!The bar makes merry at his shame;What careth he? He winneth fame,Three hundred years his reputationHath rested on that replication.Woe is me for Mylward!

'GainstWeldon Mylward files a bill,But doth his replication fillWith scandalous and idle matter,That would disgrace the maddest hatter.Woe is me for Mylward!

'Twas sixscore sheets, it might have beenContained, and amply, in sixteen;So after that the court hath risenMust Mylward Fleetward go to prison.Woe is me for Mylward!

And two days afterwards 'tis meetThat by the Warden of the FleetHe be led on in slow progressionThrough every court that sits in session.Woe is me for Mylward!

The pleading writ with words so fairMust Mylward like a tabard wear,A hole therein, the Warden cuts it,A head put through it, Mylward puts it.Woe is me for Mylward!

The bar makes merry at his shame;What careth he? He winneth fame,Three hundred years his reputationHath rested on that replication.Woe is me for Mylward!

(1 Queen's Bench Division, 189)

"Fivehundred pounds as stake I'll lay,"Says Hampden, "that by such a dayNo man of science proves to meThat earth not flat but round must be;The earth is flat, and flats are they."The sum Walsh holds right willingly;But Wallace by philosophyProves roundness, and would take awayFive hundred pounds."Proof me no proofs," quoth Hampden, "Nay,Let Wallace get it if he may,I'll sue Walsh for it." So sues he."Let Wallace," hold the judges three,"Take nought, let Walsh to Hampden payFive hundred pounds."

"Proof me no proofs," quoth Hampden, "Nay,Let Wallace get it if he may,I'll sue Walsh for it." So sues he."Let Wallace," hold the judges three,"Take nought, let Walsh to Hampden payFive hundred pounds."

(2 Probate Division, 192)

Aidme, Muses! my endeavour is to sing a woful song,How a very learned bishop in the Arches Court went wrong.Aid me, forduplex querelais an uninviting theme,And the practice of the Arches raises no poetic dream.'Tis the Reverend Child Willis, child in name but not in age,Comes he to the Court of Arches burning with a noble rage,Filing hisduplex querela, claiming for himself therebyVicarage of Drayton Parslow, or to know the reason why."Reason why?" the bishop answers; "that is not so far to seek.Little Latin have you, Willis, innocent are you of Greek.You were specially examined by my good Archdeacon Pott;He reported to me promptly, 'Greek and Latin all forgot,Non idoneusis Willis,minus et sufficiens,He may have asanum corpus, but he lacks asana mens.'""Nay," says Willis, "such an answer is but trifling with the court,I have preached a Latin sermon, and the classics are my forte,You must name the books I failed in, you must give me every chanceOf a fresh examination at the hands of Lord Penzance."Lord Penzance supported Willis: "Bishop, you must file," said he,"Some more tangible objection, some less vague and general plea.As it stands I cannot gather what it is you ploughed him in,Whether Hellenistic aorists or the Latin word for sin."But alas! the world has never known as yet what Willis did,In the breast of the Archdeacon still it lies a secret hid.Was his Latin prose defective? Did his style of writing showMore resemblance to Tertullian than to Tullius Cicero?Were his dates a little shaky? Could it, could it be that heConfidently made Augustine flourish at a dateB.C.?None will know save Pott, Archdeacon, for alas! the patronessShowed no mercy to Child Willis in the day of his distress.She revoked the presentation, leaving Willis in the lurch,One of undisputed learning preached in Drayton Parslow church.Doubly barren was his triumph, it was not a twelve-month ereDeath set uphisCourt of Arches, Willis did not triumph there.

(12 Chancery Division, 776)

Captain Dashwood, who had beenIn the service of the Queen,Sick of "Eyes front" and "Attention,"Came to London on his pension.At the "Portland" as he stayed,Firm the friendship that he madeWith one William Richards, whoPut up at the "Portland" too.Passed six years, then he was wrapped inLove's embraces, vanquished captain!"Yes," he cried, "I will; no bar shallStop my wedding Edith Marshall."But there was a bar, 'twas thatHe was poorer than a rat;Indian pensions do not runMore than just enough for one.Edith, too, had not a cent,Who would pay the rates and rent?Two more years, and Richards moved(He perchance had sometime loved),Promised them an income clear,'Twas five hundred pounds a yearFor his life; when he was dead,Then ten thousand pounds instead.This to Dashwood in a letterWrote he, deeming it was betterThey should marry soon while heLived their happiness to see.'Twas a modest sum, but marriageMay be blest without a carriage,Forty pounds a month and moreKeep the wolf from near the door.So they wed for worse or better,On the faith of Richards' letter.Scarcely was a quarter's paymentDue when mourning was their raiment.Richards died. Alas! no cash wouldFind its way to Captain Dashwood.Dashwood's head began to swim—Not a shilling left to him!"Ha, I'll have it still," cried he;"Justice dwells in Chancery."So the case was straightway takenTo the court of V.-C. Bacon.Vainly Dashwood cash expendedThe executors defended,Claiming that what Richards wroteWas not worth a five-pound note;First because the dead testatorWell, not wisely, loved the "cratur,"More than that, had often beenIn delirium tremens seen;Secondly, because he signedWhen he did not know his mind;Third, because pollicitationIs not good consideration.Law, of justice independent,Gave its judgment for defendant.Poorer than he was at first,That unhappy plaintiff cursed,With a special satisfactionCursed the day he brought his action.Would that he'd in India tarried!Would that he had never married!He, alas, is tied for lifePauper to a pauper wife,Scarce consoled that on his nameEquity reports shower fame,Bearing down to endless agesDashwood's story on their pages.

(18 Chancery Division, 109)

Ohfor the wily infant who married the widow and madeProfit of coke and of breeze, and never a penny he paid!Oh for the Corporation of Birmingham cheated and snared,Taking orders for coke that the widow and infant prepared!Oh for the Court of Appeal, and oh for Lords Justices three!Oh for the Act that infants from contracts may shake themselves free!Oh for the common law with its store of things old and new!Birmingham coke is good and good Coke upon Littleton too.

(20 Queen's Bench Division, 494)

Whenlove-sick man descends to follyAnd gets engaged, he must not stray,The jury takes the part of Polly,And if he jilts her, he must pay.The only way his fault to cover,From damages and costs to fly,To leave his jilted lady-loverWithout an action is—to die![L]

Whenlove-sick man descends to follyAnd gets engaged, he must not stray,The jury takes the part of Polly,And if he jilts her, he must pay.

The only way his fault to cover,From damages and costs to fly,To leave his jilted lady-loverWithout an action is—to die![L]

[L]The decision was to the effect that in most cases an action for breach of promise of marriage does not survive against the representatives of the promiser.

(40 Chancery Division, 345)

"ShallI take your photograph, my pretty maid?""You may if you like, kind sir," she said."Do you like your photograph, my pretty maid?""It is more than flattering, sir," she said."I'll publish your photograph, my pretty maid.""Indeed but you won't, kind sir," she said."As a Christmas card, my pretty maid.""The very idea, kind sir!" she said."But what if I've done it, my pretty maid?""I'll get an injunction, sir," she said."The law is with you, my pretty maid,"The learned judge of the Chancery said."You have proved the negative, my pretty maid,A difficult thing in law," he said.

"ShallI take your photograph, my pretty maid?""You may if you like, kind sir," she said.

"Do you like your photograph, my pretty maid?""It is more than flattering, sir," she said.

"I'll publish your photograph, my pretty maid.""Indeed but you won't, kind sir," she said.

"As a Christmas card, my pretty maid.""The very idea, kind sir!" she said.

"But what if I've done it, my pretty maid?""I'll get an injunction, sir," she said.

"The law is with you, my pretty maid,"The learned judge of the Chancery said.

"You have proved the negative, my pretty maid,A difficult thing in law," he said.

(Tried in Minnesota in 1892)

Kindreader, tarry here, nor missThe law of Minneapolis.There was a carpenter called Brown,A citizen of that great town,Who stood his "inexpressive she"A dollar's worth of comedy.Was it a Gaiety burlesque,Or labour of Norwegian desk?Or did they spout in stagey tonesMorality by H. A. Jones?Or tear romance to rags and set itIn heavy platitudes by Pettit?I know not, and it matters not,The subject I have clean forgot.Sufficient that the pair did sitIn expectation in the pit,An expectation not fulfilled,'Twas otherwise by fortune willed.Before this loving couple satIn solitary state a hat—A hat, I say, for in their wonderThey never noticed what was under,The wearer must have been a "human,"But might have been a man or woman.'Twas like a mountain crowned with treesAmid the pathless Pyrenees,Or like a garden planned by Paxton,Or colophon designed by Caxton,So intricate the work; and flowersWere trained to climb its soaring towers,Convolvulus and candytuft,And 'mid them water-wagtails stuffed.Such splendour never yet, I wis,Had shone in Minneapolis.But Brown was in a sore dilemma,A dollar he had paid for EmmaTo see a play, and not a hat;A dollar, it was dear at that.And Emma—disappointment racked her,She never saw a single actor.So Brown, with visage thunder-black,Demanded both his dollars back.The man who took the cash said, "Sonny,Our rule is not to give back money.But if you'll come another night,Maybe you'll get a better sight."So Brown went home and nursed his sorrow,His writ he issued on the morrow.A hundred dollars was his claim,And the young lady claimed the same.The case was argued, on revisionOf pleadings, this was the decision:"The theatre's defence is bad,Brown paid for what he never had,He paid when in the pit he satTo see a play and not a hat.To bring defendants to their senses,I find for plaintiffs with expenses."Justitiæ columna sis,Wise judge of Minneapolis!

(21 New England Reports, 228 [Massachusetts, 1893])

[On a complaint for keeping open a tobacconist's shop on Sunday, contrary to the law of Massachusetts, it was held that the court will take judicial notice that tobacco and cigars are not drugs and medicines, and will exclude the testimony of a witness who offers evidence that they are.]

Againstthe statutes of the Old Bay StateMarzynski on a Sunday stood behindHis counter, well content his gain to findIn pipes not pills, cigars not carbonate.From breakfast till 'twas dusk at half-past eightTobacco cheered this hardened sinner's mind,The price of it his pockets, disinclinedTo add their dime to the collection plate.The State Attorney claimed the penalty;"Cigars are no cigars," said the defence,"But drugs, and we have witnesses to prove it.""Cigars to be cigars judiciallyWe notice, and reject the evidence."So said the Court, and spat, and nought could move it.

Woeto the house whose mistress was a slave!So say old saws, my own in aid I crave;Woe to the court whose judge once spake for fees,Though he were readier than Isocrates!An advocate that pleaded once for pelfScarce on the bench forgets his former self.Palladas.

Palladas.

ThisOlympicus of oldHad, Sebastus, I am toldQuite his share of upper gear,Nose and chin and eye and ear.All he lost, and by his fist—He became a pugilist.Loss of members with it drewLoss of patrimony too.When his birthright he would claim,Into court his brother cameWith a portrait, saying, "ThusLooked the old Olympicus."None could any likeness see,Disinherited was he.Lucillus.

Lucillus.

A pig, a goat, an ox I lost:I want them back at any cost,And so retained, O woful fate!Menecles for my advocate.But tell me, will you, what have theseIn common with Othryades?The heroes of ThermopylæHave nought to do with theft from me.Against Eutychides I bringMy action for a trivial thing.Let Xerxes rest a little space,And leave the Spartans in their place.For if you don't put all this byI'll go into the streets and cry,"The voice of Menecles is big,But what about my stolen pig?"Lucillus.

Lucillus.

[This Epigram is probably an imitation of that of Martial, on p.90.]

Plutorejected at his gateThe soul of Mark the advocate;"No, Cerberus my dog," quoth he,"Will make you pleasant company;But if within you needs must go,Practise on poet Melito,And you shall have, if he won't do,Tityus and Ixion too.You'll be to hell the sorest illOf all that hell contains, untilThere come to us worse barbarismsWhen Rufus speaks his solecisms."Lucillus.

Lucillus.

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