Nor rare the tribe; altho’ at first confin’dTo few; and those of scientific mind,But yet not much enlighten’d;—as the sparkOf ill-wrought taper makes the night more dark,Such Hargreave, Butler, Fearne, and many more,Whose names have added to the mystic lore,Which all must own was mist enough before.—But these have had their day; and Preston[45]nowAssumes the sway with dictatorial brow.And who is he? from whence? and what his claimTo be inscrib’d upon the rolls of fame?In Devon born, he duly serv’d his time,That long five years apprenticeship to crime—Which at the desk he spent without a bribe,—The ready copyist, and the unsullen scribe.From Shepherd’s Touchstone next he drew a sourceOf knowledge useful for his future course;Thence did he learn each deed with curious eye.To scan by practice of anatomy:—As surgeons carefully dissect the heart,To gain experience of each inward part.Thus plodding on, while greater talents slept,He and his doctrines into notice crept.But novelty is past; and, like the worm,That, for a time, has ta’en some brighter form,Turns to the grub again, when life is gone;—So Preston’s glory into air hath flown.See in his chamber, where yon mirror hangs!’Tis there he studies for his court harangues:Harangues, whereby he seldom gains a cause,Yet never fails to win his own applause.He lisps—did not Demosthenes the same,Before with pebbles he that fault o’ercame?What, if conceit possesses Preston’s mind?Pray, was not Cicero as vainly blind?Not that I mean—no, reason aid me there—With one or other Preston to compare.They shine bright stars of eloquence sublime,Each name untarnish’d by the rust of time;While Preston’s name will last no longer thanThe brief continuance of his own short span.Fate in himself hath wisely plac’d the keyOf all he ever was, is, or shall be.His praise with life shall to the grave descend,One common burial and one common end!—Unless, perchance in folly’s rank supreme,He still may live to be of mirth the theme,When those, who pass yon barren moors, shall stateHow well he tried those heaths to cultivate;Raise vegetation from the granite stone,And rule the will of nature by his own.The cause is open’d. Bell begins to plead,And argues thus that Dobbin must succeed,[46]“My Lord, your Lordship sees by common sense“What is the object of my friend’s defence.“A losing contract don’t exactly please,“And that’s the reason, as your lordship sees.“This having thus premised”—“nay, stop,” cries Horne;“The statement really is not to be borne;“A client breathes not, who can mine excell,“At least as upright as my brother Bell.”Then Bell resumes his speech with stutt’ring phrase,“Why interrupt me when I state the case.“Your Lordship knows that when men feel despair,“They strive by noise to dissipate their care;“Just so my friend that feeling would repress“By dint of rage and stormy scornfulness;“And well I know this conduct is but meant“To break the order of one’s argument.“So this I say, the judgment seat before,“That right is right;—I do not plead for more.“Defendant will not to his purchase stand,“Whereby my client loses cash and land.“Can this be right? No. Then, ’tis clear to me“Relief with costs your Lordship will decree!”Next Horne uprises with resentment dire,And sputters nonsense in a speech of fire.“My Lord,” he cries, “behold this massive bill;“The office copy would a volume fill!“’Tis only done my client to oppress,“Investing falsehood with a grander dress,—“The whole a tissue of malignant lies;“Defendant’s answer every fact denies.“My client has perhaps the land enjoyed,“But then his money has been unemployed;“For, when the abstract was from Preston got,“It shew’d too glaringly the fatal blot.“Possessive title, as your Lordship knows,“Full sixty years enjoyment must disclose.“Now it so happen’d that on Lady Day,“When my poor client had the cash to pay;“Hours four and twenty (so the fact appears)“Must pass, to make a term of sixty years.“The point, tho’ doubted once, is set at rest;—“My friend may smile, but mine will be the jest.“I claim your Lordship’s judgment on my side“With all the foresight of triumphant pride.“Nor care I who may blame! my client stands“For Justice; and the law, not praise, demands:—“If harsh the deed, his conscience may atone,“But to the priest be that confession known.”Thus Bell replies—“My Lord, behold my friend,“Another Shylock—comes our lives to end.“The pound of flesh he claims in barb’rous mood,“Tho’ death should follow with the loss of blood.“My friend admits the only flaw he knows“Thro’ all the title to the paltry close,“Is that on Lady Day a few short hours“Were wanting to complete this term of ours;“And that, because the title then was found“Defective, nought on earth could make it sound.“Who doubts the motive of such rotten plea?“My friend may fume, ’tis plain enough to me.“He asks for Justice.—What is Justice here?“On March the twenty-sixth, our right was clear.“That very day as evidence will shew,“Defendant from his purchase wish’d to go,“In this deceptious refuge took resort,“And drove us most unwilling into Court.“If law and justice in one point unite,“My friend is wrong, and I am surely right.“Who makes a contract must the terms fulfil;—“We always have been ready; are so still.“The title clear; the field by Gripe possess’d,“No purchase money paid, nor interest,—“Is this a case for cautious doubt to pause?“Let common sense at once decide the cause!“Substantial justice to my claim decree,“And make for once a Court of Equity.”Now hear the judge. “This cause I cannot end,“But must with sorrow to the master send.[47]“Let him into the business well inquire,“And state each fact, as parties may desire,—“What changes, if at all, has undergone“The title; and when first a right was shewn.“These points the wisest master should engross;“So let the matter be referr’d to Cross.“All other question, and the costs be stay’d“For future judgment, when report is made.”Ye heathen bards, in whose Tartarean Hell“Hope withering droops, and mercy sighs farewell.”Dark scene of horror, punishment, and fear;Behold its agonies depictured here!Another Tantalus attempts to sipThe welcome spring, that flows to mock his lip:—Another Sysiphus rolls up the stoneTo some tall height, from which it thunders down:Here wretched dames, who never did a crime,In filling sieves are doom’d to spend their time;—Here too Ixions writhe upon a wheelWith pangs, that disappointment makes them feel;While Tityus lies, by justice thrown aback,And owns the tortures of a sharper rack;Despair, the vulture, on his liver feeds,And laps each gory life-drop, as it bleeds,—Screams with delight at the prolong’d repast,And owns no more the anguish of a fast!In Chancery Lane a fabrick[48]rears its head,Whose vermin inmates, by foul plunder fed,In impious candour drown all mental qualms,And cringe for bribes, as beggars ask for alms.There registrar’s in form prepare decreesWith long recitals, adding to their fees;While ill-paid clerks, unable else to live,From office copies equal spoil derive.Woe to the thrifty wretch, whoe’er he be,That asks from South[49]no copy of decree!In vain attention shall he claim; in vainTo ideot Burrows of delay complain.Threats and entreaties meet the same neglect;But take a copy, and secure respect.Thus tam’d, no more the pug-nos’d monkey fear;For all your wants command the pliant ear!Your welcome face will haunt him in his dream,And every smile a copy-order seem.Nor less are ent’ring clerks by lucre sway’d,Tho’ shame invests their purpose with a shade.If orders press, they will not take a bribe:—No, tempt not thus each conscientious scribe!They spurn all gold you would on them confer;But pray, be gen’rous to the stationer.[50]A name invented rapine to conceal,—As tailors cabbage, but disdain to steal.Thro’ all the court it runs from right to left,By custom sanctified, tho’ still a theft.No outward form of words will vary crime;—Who cribs an egg, may rob the house in time.Once pass the bounds of uprightness, and seeHow quick the transit into knavery!Of all this dunghill crew there triumphs one,Whom I must name Corruption’s favourite son!Abbott[51], stand forth! thou pious-looking elf,Cloak in that simple face thy love of pelf;Of pelf extorted from the suitor’s purse.Oh! may it prove to thee and thine a curse!Let all reports thy greedy hand hath fil’dStart from their shelves, and hearing thee revil’d,Make known each instance of thy golden lust,And own the muse is in its censure just.Before my sight another viper’s nest[52]Appears, as foul and loathsome as the rest;Where bad accountants shew no other tact,Than that which centres in the word “substract”—That is, from others’ pocket to transfer(The price of peace) what none would else confer.For this objections, flimsy as the netA spider weaves each passing fly to get,They coin, and language turn from its intentTo speak a purpose that was never meant.Some name mis-spelt—one letter less or more,A petty blunder ne’er observed before,—A mode of diction not precisely plain,When fools attempt the grammar’s art to strain,—Add to delay full many an iron bar,And every effort of progression mar.For, like the hydra, should you crush one head,Behold ten others rising in its stead!Alcide’s labours seem reviv’d, but noneAre found, like him, to combat vice alone.Where right should flourish, see the weeds of crimeBrought to perfection by the viper’s slime;Guilt spreads unnotic’d over Virtue’s ground,And crawling reptiles spit their venom round.Time was, when I on common sense intent,These cocker critics fought with argument;But soon I found that weapon better toldWhen slyly pointed with a piece of gold;Conviction follow’d, as I gave it in,And all confess’d my art deserv’d to win—May heaven’s recorder blot away the sin!Speed onward, Pegasus, and take a peep,Where sixty clerks with their six elders sleep;[53]Of whom the muse no good account can give,—The worst of idlers in a dronish hive.To do their duty on the Bible sworn;—That oath should seem as taken but in scorn.Why should they labour in so bad a trade?Ten pence for ninety words is vilely paid;And six and eight-pence adds but little strength,When taxing bills according to their length.Luxurious Baines! how often have I kneltTo beg thy presence, ’ere the news was spelt!When idle fits enchained thee to the fire,In vain persuasion, or the look of ire.No force could motion to thy limbs impart;A torpid creature, without head or heart!And yet in thee the same weak point abounds.Paid on account a cheque for fifty poundsThou feelest then a temper far more civil,And for that sum would follow to the devil.No more the blood-drops stagnate in thy veins;No more can truth describe thee, lazy Baines!Taxation[54]hail! thine academic schoolBehold, where all are taught to judge by rule,Not reason. Fools are ever paid the sameAs those, whose talents grace the rolls of fame.Successful labour gets no better payThan indolence, that loiters on the way;—No matter what the toil, or care, or pain,—Should usage fail, remonstrance pleads in vain.In odious custom judgment lies interr’d;To that is argument and sense referr’d.By general nostrums quacks endanger life,So clerks in court apply the pruning knife.The system lops each rotten bough, ’tis true;But then it severs many a sound one too.Turn to the tedious process of contempt;—Why should my foe from payment be exempt,If, firm in every stage, except the last,He leaves to me all damage of the past?—Nor this the only point for suitors grief;Ten thousand others claim a like relief.If judges must permit delay at all,The costs at least should on the guilty fall:For where is justice, reason, law, or sense,When parties in the wrong escape th’ expense.No shelter lies beneath a silly rule;It serves but to increase the ridicule;—The blund’ring precept of some ancient sage,Whose light is darkness in the present age.There are, I hear, who bound in plainer calfFrom every item always tax one half—A sapient plan! which he, who draws the bill,Can well defeat without a Turpin’s skill.’Tis but to double what he means to score,And thus hath plunder found another door;—A place of entrance smuggled, as it were,Thro’ one, who should prevent intrusion there!I leave the cause with which my strain began;For why again the same dull topics scan?What Cross decides will not be right in course,—Of new delays, and fresh appeals the source!The ground, law’s hopeless victim trod before,Must be re-trac’d with tardy pace once more.Years of long trial he must pass again,Till death shall finish, not his suit but pain;And if, perchance, his twentieth heir shall seeAn end to this heart-eating misery,To pay large extra-costs the wretch can’t fail,—His fate St. Lukes, the Workhouse, or a Jail.A Court of Equity is well defin’dBy those, who call it “very, very kind,—”The dwarf, who to a giant friend applied,Obtain’d large conquests fighting by his side;But every battle lopp’d away a limb.Suitors! are you not very much like him?Without that giant’s aid in vain the war;But his is all the profit, yours the scar.What boots success, if dearly bought with life?Defend me, Heaven! from such victorious strife.Ye dwarfs, no more such strong protection seek,Unequal friendships always hurt the weak!Ye injured, shun all help from Chancery!The Court’s a hell, of which death keeps the key!!!Still are there cases, where it seems to shine,But ’tis like icicle in iron mine,—Bright for a time, and brilliant beams it’s ray,But soon it breaks or melting fades away;—Thus when the Court, a Foundling Hospital,On orphan babes[55]it’s parent hand lets fall,The deed so charitably good appears,That fond delusion hails the sight with tears;—But soon alas! those tears of joy will turnTo drops of bitter woe, the soul to burn—E’en babes must pay of guardianship the price,And feel the gripe of legal avarice.The masters word must ever guide their fateIn person, conduct, marriage, or estate.Some trees want felling; houses claim repair;A lease is sought; are the conditions fair?Receivers would upon a farm distrain;Guardians of too small maintenance complain;In every case, before an act be done,Must approbation from the Court be won;Aye, e’n ere Hymen’s torch can hallow love,The Court and Master must its joys approve.Oh! happy infants, how supremely blest!To this parental care is but a jest.A tiger of her young, by death withdrawn,Supplied the loss by suckling a young fawn.Maternal love into her bosom crept,And for a time each wilder passion slept;But famine soon upon the savage grew;With sparkling eyes her foster cub she drewClose to her dugs, where lay the milky sup;And out of pure affection eat it up.Just so the Court each tender orphan treats;But ’tis the fortune, not the babe, it eats.When men run mad, the Court effectual painsExerts, that none should e’er resume their brains;For picture one, who buried in the tombShould wake again amid the charnel’s gloom,Find his cold corpse by winding sheets secur’d.And thus within a narrow vault immured;Say, would the light of his returning senseDo more, than once again expel it thence?E’en so the maniac, if, by chance, a beamOf wand’ring reason thro’ his head should gleam,What speechless horror would he feel to seeHimself and substance wards of Chancery?That prospect all reviving sense would sever,And plunge his mind in darkest night for ever!Should partners quarrel in their mutual trade,What friend so ready as the Court to aid?View’d from afar it’s proffers kind may seem,But near acquaintance proves the whole a dream.Death at our call a visit oft will pay,Surprised to find we wish him far away;—So Chancery suitors are compelled with griefTo spurn the hand, from which they sought reliefWhate’er the joint concern; for five per centThe court secures an able management;Keeps just account, but at a large expense,And claims great merit for it’s abstinence.Thus Eldon long of Opera House the warden,And erst ex-manager of Covent Garden,[56]Play’d many parts on the commercial stage;—The most extensive chapman of the age.In iron now, and now in brass he dealt,But gold would never in his fingers melt;With careful hand he kept the precious ore,And every guinea made him wish for more.When stinted tenants do or threaten waste,Fly for injunctions to the court in haste;And weep at leisure o’er the wasted means,That e’en success from such procedure gleans.[57]Another’s faults are seldom pass’d unknown:How few will condescend to cure their own!Ye hungry churchmen, fond of tithes in kind,Hunt ancient records, ancient rights to find.Preach to your simple flock of peace with tears,Then,—set them altogether by the ears;And, should you wish sincerely lov’d to be,Drag all the parish into Chancery—For your’s is not the fault, but theirs, who bilkThe starving rector of his tithes of milk,Of corn, potatoes, wood, calves, geese, and swine;Say, claims he not the tenth by right divine?[58]From holy writ the principle is taken,And he who doubts will scarcely save his bacon!How many jars from nuptial contracts rise,And add fresh force to legal sacrifice!Decay’d affections, ere they quite expire,Erect in Chancery their fun’ral pyre;The husband lights the flambeau for his spouse,And both in turn contention’s spirit rouse:—Still is it singular, ’mid all their strife,How well they keep the part of man and wife.Each on the other loads abuse at first,But ends at last in cursing law the worst.[59]Of all the copious springs, that Chancery fill,The most prolific is a nabob’s will.From every line a source of contest flows,That wakes to light, when he sinks to repose.How would the miser, who hath left his hoard,To build a place for service of the Lord,Or some more charitable purpose, stare,To see that treasure given to his heir,[60]A thoughtless prodigal, to whom, in hopeOf making better he bequeathed a rope;The only loom which that young gen’rous elfWished the testator to enjoy himself.There’s not a legacy, or land devise,On which some legal question may not rise,Of long litigious misery the root,Set by a hand, that never reaps its fruit.Oh! Equity, thou o’ergorg’d beast, digestWhat now distends thy maw, and spare the rest.Let weary jackalls slumber for a time,’Till sleep begets an emptiness of crime.When hunger calls, employ again thy pow’r,But mangle not, unless thou can’st devour.[61]Of death itself we little should complain,If lingering torments did not add to pain.Exhaustion summons; not that matter fails,But idle nature o’er my muse prevails.A weariness in her perhaps may findThe same sensations in a reader’s mind.Enough for me, if one amid the throngShall learn to profit by my humble song;Embark not vainly in a losing cause,Nor seek protection from deficient laws.Enough for me, if by exposure shamed,One wretch shall be from vicious acts reclaim’d;Admit that truth has temper’d censure’s rod,And rescued him from Beelzebub to God!
Nor rare the tribe; altho’ at first confin’dTo few; and those of scientific mind,But yet not much enlighten’d;—as the sparkOf ill-wrought taper makes the night more dark,Such Hargreave, Butler, Fearne, and many more,Whose names have added to the mystic lore,Which all must own was mist enough before.—But these have had their day; and Preston[45]nowAssumes the sway with dictatorial brow.And who is he? from whence? and what his claimTo be inscrib’d upon the rolls of fame?In Devon born, he duly serv’d his time,That long five years apprenticeship to crime—Which at the desk he spent without a bribe,—The ready copyist, and the unsullen scribe.From Shepherd’s Touchstone next he drew a sourceOf knowledge useful for his future course;Thence did he learn each deed with curious eye.To scan by practice of anatomy:—As surgeons carefully dissect the heart,To gain experience of each inward part.Thus plodding on, while greater talents slept,He and his doctrines into notice crept.But novelty is past; and, like the worm,That, for a time, has ta’en some brighter form,Turns to the grub again, when life is gone;—So Preston’s glory into air hath flown.See in his chamber, where yon mirror hangs!’Tis there he studies for his court harangues:Harangues, whereby he seldom gains a cause,Yet never fails to win his own applause.He lisps—did not Demosthenes the same,Before with pebbles he that fault o’ercame?What, if conceit possesses Preston’s mind?Pray, was not Cicero as vainly blind?Not that I mean—no, reason aid me there—With one or other Preston to compare.They shine bright stars of eloquence sublime,Each name untarnish’d by the rust of time;While Preston’s name will last no longer thanThe brief continuance of his own short span.Fate in himself hath wisely plac’d the keyOf all he ever was, is, or shall be.His praise with life shall to the grave descend,One common burial and one common end!—Unless, perchance in folly’s rank supreme,He still may live to be of mirth the theme,When those, who pass yon barren moors, shall stateHow well he tried those heaths to cultivate;Raise vegetation from the granite stone,And rule the will of nature by his own.The cause is open’d. Bell begins to plead,And argues thus that Dobbin must succeed,[46]“My Lord, your Lordship sees by common sense“What is the object of my friend’s defence.“A losing contract don’t exactly please,“And that’s the reason, as your lordship sees.“This having thus premised”—“nay, stop,” cries Horne;“The statement really is not to be borne;“A client breathes not, who can mine excell,“At least as upright as my brother Bell.”Then Bell resumes his speech with stutt’ring phrase,“Why interrupt me when I state the case.“Your Lordship knows that when men feel despair,“They strive by noise to dissipate their care;“Just so my friend that feeling would repress“By dint of rage and stormy scornfulness;“And well I know this conduct is but meant“To break the order of one’s argument.“So this I say, the judgment seat before,“That right is right;—I do not plead for more.“Defendant will not to his purchase stand,“Whereby my client loses cash and land.“Can this be right? No. Then, ’tis clear to me“Relief with costs your Lordship will decree!”Next Horne uprises with resentment dire,And sputters nonsense in a speech of fire.“My Lord,” he cries, “behold this massive bill;“The office copy would a volume fill!“’Tis only done my client to oppress,“Investing falsehood with a grander dress,—“The whole a tissue of malignant lies;“Defendant’s answer every fact denies.“My client has perhaps the land enjoyed,“But then his money has been unemployed;“For, when the abstract was from Preston got,“It shew’d too glaringly the fatal blot.“Possessive title, as your Lordship knows,“Full sixty years enjoyment must disclose.“Now it so happen’d that on Lady Day,“When my poor client had the cash to pay;“Hours four and twenty (so the fact appears)“Must pass, to make a term of sixty years.“The point, tho’ doubted once, is set at rest;—“My friend may smile, but mine will be the jest.“I claim your Lordship’s judgment on my side“With all the foresight of triumphant pride.“Nor care I who may blame! my client stands“For Justice; and the law, not praise, demands:—“If harsh the deed, his conscience may atone,“But to the priest be that confession known.”Thus Bell replies—“My Lord, behold my friend,“Another Shylock—comes our lives to end.“The pound of flesh he claims in barb’rous mood,“Tho’ death should follow with the loss of blood.“My friend admits the only flaw he knows“Thro’ all the title to the paltry close,“Is that on Lady Day a few short hours“Were wanting to complete this term of ours;“And that, because the title then was found“Defective, nought on earth could make it sound.“Who doubts the motive of such rotten plea?“My friend may fume, ’tis plain enough to me.“He asks for Justice.—What is Justice here?“On March the twenty-sixth, our right was clear.“That very day as evidence will shew,“Defendant from his purchase wish’d to go,“In this deceptious refuge took resort,“And drove us most unwilling into Court.“If law and justice in one point unite,“My friend is wrong, and I am surely right.“Who makes a contract must the terms fulfil;—“We always have been ready; are so still.“The title clear; the field by Gripe possess’d,“No purchase money paid, nor interest,—“Is this a case for cautious doubt to pause?“Let common sense at once decide the cause!“Substantial justice to my claim decree,“And make for once a Court of Equity.”Now hear the judge. “This cause I cannot end,“But must with sorrow to the master send.[47]“Let him into the business well inquire,“And state each fact, as parties may desire,—“What changes, if at all, has undergone“The title; and when first a right was shewn.“These points the wisest master should engross;“So let the matter be referr’d to Cross.“All other question, and the costs be stay’d“For future judgment, when report is made.”Ye heathen bards, in whose Tartarean Hell“Hope withering droops, and mercy sighs farewell.”Dark scene of horror, punishment, and fear;Behold its agonies depictured here!Another Tantalus attempts to sipThe welcome spring, that flows to mock his lip:—Another Sysiphus rolls up the stoneTo some tall height, from which it thunders down:Here wretched dames, who never did a crime,In filling sieves are doom’d to spend their time;—Here too Ixions writhe upon a wheelWith pangs, that disappointment makes them feel;While Tityus lies, by justice thrown aback,And owns the tortures of a sharper rack;Despair, the vulture, on his liver feeds,And laps each gory life-drop, as it bleeds,—Screams with delight at the prolong’d repast,And owns no more the anguish of a fast!In Chancery Lane a fabrick[48]rears its head,Whose vermin inmates, by foul plunder fed,In impious candour drown all mental qualms,And cringe for bribes, as beggars ask for alms.There registrar’s in form prepare decreesWith long recitals, adding to their fees;While ill-paid clerks, unable else to live,From office copies equal spoil derive.Woe to the thrifty wretch, whoe’er he be,That asks from South[49]no copy of decree!In vain attention shall he claim; in vainTo ideot Burrows of delay complain.Threats and entreaties meet the same neglect;But take a copy, and secure respect.Thus tam’d, no more the pug-nos’d monkey fear;For all your wants command the pliant ear!Your welcome face will haunt him in his dream,And every smile a copy-order seem.Nor less are ent’ring clerks by lucre sway’d,Tho’ shame invests their purpose with a shade.If orders press, they will not take a bribe:—No, tempt not thus each conscientious scribe!They spurn all gold you would on them confer;But pray, be gen’rous to the stationer.[50]A name invented rapine to conceal,—As tailors cabbage, but disdain to steal.Thro’ all the court it runs from right to left,By custom sanctified, tho’ still a theft.No outward form of words will vary crime;—Who cribs an egg, may rob the house in time.Once pass the bounds of uprightness, and seeHow quick the transit into knavery!Of all this dunghill crew there triumphs one,Whom I must name Corruption’s favourite son!Abbott[51], stand forth! thou pious-looking elf,Cloak in that simple face thy love of pelf;Of pelf extorted from the suitor’s purse.Oh! may it prove to thee and thine a curse!Let all reports thy greedy hand hath fil’dStart from their shelves, and hearing thee revil’d,Make known each instance of thy golden lust,And own the muse is in its censure just.Before my sight another viper’s nest[52]Appears, as foul and loathsome as the rest;Where bad accountants shew no other tact,Than that which centres in the word “substract”—That is, from others’ pocket to transfer(The price of peace) what none would else confer.For this objections, flimsy as the netA spider weaves each passing fly to get,They coin, and language turn from its intentTo speak a purpose that was never meant.Some name mis-spelt—one letter less or more,A petty blunder ne’er observed before,—A mode of diction not precisely plain,When fools attempt the grammar’s art to strain,—Add to delay full many an iron bar,And every effort of progression mar.For, like the hydra, should you crush one head,Behold ten others rising in its stead!Alcide’s labours seem reviv’d, but noneAre found, like him, to combat vice alone.Where right should flourish, see the weeds of crimeBrought to perfection by the viper’s slime;Guilt spreads unnotic’d over Virtue’s ground,And crawling reptiles spit their venom round.Time was, when I on common sense intent,These cocker critics fought with argument;But soon I found that weapon better toldWhen slyly pointed with a piece of gold;Conviction follow’d, as I gave it in,And all confess’d my art deserv’d to win—May heaven’s recorder blot away the sin!Speed onward, Pegasus, and take a peep,Where sixty clerks with their six elders sleep;[53]Of whom the muse no good account can give,—The worst of idlers in a dronish hive.To do their duty on the Bible sworn;—That oath should seem as taken but in scorn.Why should they labour in so bad a trade?Ten pence for ninety words is vilely paid;And six and eight-pence adds but little strength,When taxing bills according to their length.Luxurious Baines! how often have I kneltTo beg thy presence, ’ere the news was spelt!When idle fits enchained thee to the fire,In vain persuasion, or the look of ire.No force could motion to thy limbs impart;A torpid creature, without head or heart!And yet in thee the same weak point abounds.Paid on account a cheque for fifty poundsThou feelest then a temper far more civil,And for that sum would follow to the devil.No more the blood-drops stagnate in thy veins;No more can truth describe thee, lazy Baines!Taxation[54]hail! thine academic schoolBehold, where all are taught to judge by rule,Not reason. Fools are ever paid the sameAs those, whose talents grace the rolls of fame.Successful labour gets no better payThan indolence, that loiters on the way;—No matter what the toil, or care, or pain,—Should usage fail, remonstrance pleads in vain.In odious custom judgment lies interr’d;To that is argument and sense referr’d.By general nostrums quacks endanger life,So clerks in court apply the pruning knife.The system lops each rotten bough, ’tis true;But then it severs many a sound one too.Turn to the tedious process of contempt;—Why should my foe from payment be exempt,If, firm in every stage, except the last,He leaves to me all damage of the past?—Nor this the only point for suitors grief;Ten thousand others claim a like relief.If judges must permit delay at all,The costs at least should on the guilty fall:For where is justice, reason, law, or sense,When parties in the wrong escape th’ expense.No shelter lies beneath a silly rule;It serves but to increase the ridicule;—The blund’ring precept of some ancient sage,Whose light is darkness in the present age.There are, I hear, who bound in plainer calfFrom every item always tax one half—A sapient plan! which he, who draws the bill,Can well defeat without a Turpin’s skill.’Tis but to double what he means to score,And thus hath plunder found another door;—A place of entrance smuggled, as it were,Thro’ one, who should prevent intrusion there!I leave the cause with which my strain began;For why again the same dull topics scan?What Cross decides will not be right in course,—Of new delays, and fresh appeals the source!The ground, law’s hopeless victim trod before,Must be re-trac’d with tardy pace once more.Years of long trial he must pass again,Till death shall finish, not his suit but pain;And if, perchance, his twentieth heir shall seeAn end to this heart-eating misery,To pay large extra-costs the wretch can’t fail,—His fate St. Lukes, the Workhouse, or a Jail.A Court of Equity is well defin’dBy those, who call it “very, very kind,—”The dwarf, who to a giant friend applied,Obtain’d large conquests fighting by his side;But every battle lopp’d away a limb.Suitors! are you not very much like him?Without that giant’s aid in vain the war;But his is all the profit, yours the scar.What boots success, if dearly bought with life?Defend me, Heaven! from such victorious strife.Ye dwarfs, no more such strong protection seek,Unequal friendships always hurt the weak!Ye injured, shun all help from Chancery!The Court’s a hell, of which death keeps the key!!!Still are there cases, where it seems to shine,But ’tis like icicle in iron mine,—Bright for a time, and brilliant beams it’s ray,But soon it breaks or melting fades away;—Thus when the Court, a Foundling Hospital,On orphan babes[55]it’s parent hand lets fall,The deed so charitably good appears,That fond delusion hails the sight with tears;—But soon alas! those tears of joy will turnTo drops of bitter woe, the soul to burn—E’en babes must pay of guardianship the price,And feel the gripe of legal avarice.The masters word must ever guide their fateIn person, conduct, marriage, or estate.Some trees want felling; houses claim repair;A lease is sought; are the conditions fair?Receivers would upon a farm distrain;Guardians of too small maintenance complain;In every case, before an act be done,Must approbation from the Court be won;Aye, e’n ere Hymen’s torch can hallow love,The Court and Master must its joys approve.Oh! happy infants, how supremely blest!To this parental care is but a jest.A tiger of her young, by death withdrawn,Supplied the loss by suckling a young fawn.Maternal love into her bosom crept,And for a time each wilder passion slept;But famine soon upon the savage grew;With sparkling eyes her foster cub she drewClose to her dugs, where lay the milky sup;And out of pure affection eat it up.Just so the Court each tender orphan treats;But ’tis the fortune, not the babe, it eats.When men run mad, the Court effectual painsExerts, that none should e’er resume their brains;For picture one, who buried in the tombShould wake again amid the charnel’s gloom,Find his cold corpse by winding sheets secur’d.And thus within a narrow vault immured;Say, would the light of his returning senseDo more, than once again expel it thence?E’en so the maniac, if, by chance, a beamOf wand’ring reason thro’ his head should gleam,What speechless horror would he feel to seeHimself and substance wards of Chancery?That prospect all reviving sense would sever,And plunge his mind in darkest night for ever!Should partners quarrel in their mutual trade,What friend so ready as the Court to aid?View’d from afar it’s proffers kind may seem,But near acquaintance proves the whole a dream.Death at our call a visit oft will pay,Surprised to find we wish him far away;—So Chancery suitors are compelled with griefTo spurn the hand, from which they sought reliefWhate’er the joint concern; for five per centThe court secures an able management;Keeps just account, but at a large expense,And claims great merit for it’s abstinence.Thus Eldon long of Opera House the warden,And erst ex-manager of Covent Garden,[56]Play’d many parts on the commercial stage;—The most extensive chapman of the age.In iron now, and now in brass he dealt,But gold would never in his fingers melt;With careful hand he kept the precious ore,And every guinea made him wish for more.When stinted tenants do or threaten waste,Fly for injunctions to the court in haste;And weep at leisure o’er the wasted means,That e’en success from such procedure gleans.[57]Another’s faults are seldom pass’d unknown:How few will condescend to cure their own!Ye hungry churchmen, fond of tithes in kind,Hunt ancient records, ancient rights to find.Preach to your simple flock of peace with tears,Then,—set them altogether by the ears;And, should you wish sincerely lov’d to be,Drag all the parish into Chancery—For your’s is not the fault, but theirs, who bilkThe starving rector of his tithes of milk,Of corn, potatoes, wood, calves, geese, and swine;Say, claims he not the tenth by right divine?[58]From holy writ the principle is taken,And he who doubts will scarcely save his bacon!How many jars from nuptial contracts rise,And add fresh force to legal sacrifice!Decay’d affections, ere they quite expire,Erect in Chancery their fun’ral pyre;The husband lights the flambeau for his spouse,And both in turn contention’s spirit rouse:—Still is it singular, ’mid all their strife,How well they keep the part of man and wife.Each on the other loads abuse at first,But ends at last in cursing law the worst.[59]Of all the copious springs, that Chancery fill,The most prolific is a nabob’s will.From every line a source of contest flows,That wakes to light, when he sinks to repose.How would the miser, who hath left his hoard,To build a place for service of the Lord,Or some more charitable purpose, stare,To see that treasure given to his heir,[60]A thoughtless prodigal, to whom, in hopeOf making better he bequeathed a rope;The only loom which that young gen’rous elfWished the testator to enjoy himself.There’s not a legacy, or land devise,On which some legal question may not rise,Of long litigious misery the root,Set by a hand, that never reaps its fruit.Oh! Equity, thou o’ergorg’d beast, digestWhat now distends thy maw, and spare the rest.Let weary jackalls slumber for a time,’Till sleep begets an emptiness of crime.When hunger calls, employ again thy pow’r,But mangle not, unless thou can’st devour.[61]Of death itself we little should complain,If lingering torments did not add to pain.Exhaustion summons; not that matter fails,But idle nature o’er my muse prevails.A weariness in her perhaps may findThe same sensations in a reader’s mind.Enough for me, if one amid the throngShall learn to profit by my humble song;Embark not vainly in a losing cause,Nor seek protection from deficient laws.Enough for me, if by exposure shamed,One wretch shall be from vicious acts reclaim’d;Admit that truth has temper’d censure’s rod,And rescued him from Beelzebub to God!
Nor rare the tribe; altho’ at first confin’dTo few; and those of scientific mind,But yet not much enlighten’d;—as the sparkOf ill-wrought taper makes the night more dark,Such Hargreave, Butler, Fearne, and many more,Whose names have added to the mystic lore,Which all must own was mist enough before.—But these have had their day; and Preston[45]nowAssumes the sway with dictatorial brow.And who is he? from whence? and what his claimTo be inscrib’d upon the rolls of fame?In Devon born, he duly serv’d his time,That long five years apprenticeship to crime—Which at the desk he spent without a bribe,—The ready copyist, and the unsullen scribe.From Shepherd’s Touchstone next he drew a sourceOf knowledge useful for his future course;Thence did he learn each deed with curious eye.To scan by practice of anatomy:—As surgeons carefully dissect the heart,To gain experience of each inward part.Thus plodding on, while greater talents slept,He and his doctrines into notice crept.But novelty is past; and, like the worm,That, for a time, has ta’en some brighter form,Turns to the grub again, when life is gone;—So Preston’s glory into air hath flown.See in his chamber, where yon mirror hangs!’Tis there he studies for his court harangues:Harangues, whereby he seldom gains a cause,Yet never fails to win his own applause.He lisps—did not Demosthenes the same,Before with pebbles he that fault o’ercame?What, if conceit possesses Preston’s mind?Pray, was not Cicero as vainly blind?Not that I mean—no, reason aid me there—With one or other Preston to compare.They shine bright stars of eloquence sublime,Each name untarnish’d by the rust of time;While Preston’s name will last no longer thanThe brief continuance of his own short span.Fate in himself hath wisely plac’d the keyOf all he ever was, is, or shall be.His praise with life shall to the grave descend,One common burial and one common end!—Unless, perchance in folly’s rank supreme,He still may live to be of mirth the theme,When those, who pass yon barren moors, shall stateHow well he tried those heaths to cultivate;Raise vegetation from the granite stone,And rule the will of nature by his own.
The cause is open’d. Bell begins to plead,And argues thus that Dobbin must succeed,[46]“My Lord, your Lordship sees by common sense“What is the object of my friend’s defence.“A losing contract don’t exactly please,“And that’s the reason, as your lordship sees.“This having thus premised”—“nay, stop,” cries Horne;“The statement really is not to be borne;“A client breathes not, who can mine excell,“At least as upright as my brother Bell.”Then Bell resumes his speech with stutt’ring phrase,“Why interrupt me when I state the case.“Your Lordship knows that when men feel despair,“They strive by noise to dissipate their care;“Just so my friend that feeling would repress“By dint of rage and stormy scornfulness;“And well I know this conduct is but meant“To break the order of one’s argument.“So this I say, the judgment seat before,“That right is right;—I do not plead for more.“Defendant will not to his purchase stand,“Whereby my client loses cash and land.“Can this be right? No. Then, ’tis clear to me“Relief with costs your Lordship will decree!”
Next Horne uprises with resentment dire,And sputters nonsense in a speech of fire.“My Lord,” he cries, “behold this massive bill;“The office copy would a volume fill!“’Tis only done my client to oppress,“Investing falsehood with a grander dress,—“The whole a tissue of malignant lies;“Defendant’s answer every fact denies.“My client has perhaps the land enjoyed,“But then his money has been unemployed;“For, when the abstract was from Preston got,“It shew’d too glaringly the fatal blot.“Possessive title, as your Lordship knows,“Full sixty years enjoyment must disclose.“Now it so happen’d that on Lady Day,“When my poor client had the cash to pay;“Hours four and twenty (so the fact appears)“Must pass, to make a term of sixty years.“The point, tho’ doubted once, is set at rest;—“My friend may smile, but mine will be the jest.“I claim your Lordship’s judgment on my side“With all the foresight of triumphant pride.“Nor care I who may blame! my client stands“For Justice; and the law, not praise, demands:—“If harsh the deed, his conscience may atone,“But to the priest be that confession known.”
Thus Bell replies—“My Lord, behold my friend,“Another Shylock—comes our lives to end.“The pound of flesh he claims in barb’rous mood,“Tho’ death should follow with the loss of blood.“My friend admits the only flaw he knows“Thro’ all the title to the paltry close,“Is that on Lady Day a few short hours“Were wanting to complete this term of ours;“And that, because the title then was found“Defective, nought on earth could make it sound.“Who doubts the motive of such rotten plea?“My friend may fume, ’tis plain enough to me.“He asks for Justice.—What is Justice here?“On March the twenty-sixth, our right was clear.“That very day as evidence will shew,“Defendant from his purchase wish’d to go,“In this deceptious refuge took resort,“And drove us most unwilling into Court.“If law and justice in one point unite,“My friend is wrong, and I am surely right.“Who makes a contract must the terms fulfil;—“We always have been ready; are so still.“The title clear; the field by Gripe possess’d,“No purchase money paid, nor interest,—“Is this a case for cautious doubt to pause?“Let common sense at once decide the cause!“Substantial justice to my claim decree,“And make for once a Court of Equity.”
Now hear the judge. “This cause I cannot end,“But must with sorrow to the master send.[47]“Let him into the business well inquire,“And state each fact, as parties may desire,—“What changes, if at all, has undergone“The title; and when first a right was shewn.“These points the wisest master should engross;“So let the matter be referr’d to Cross.“All other question, and the costs be stay’d“For future judgment, when report is made.”
Ye heathen bards, in whose Tartarean Hell“Hope withering droops, and mercy sighs farewell.”Dark scene of horror, punishment, and fear;Behold its agonies depictured here!Another Tantalus attempts to sipThe welcome spring, that flows to mock his lip:—Another Sysiphus rolls up the stoneTo some tall height, from which it thunders down:Here wretched dames, who never did a crime,In filling sieves are doom’d to spend their time;—Here too Ixions writhe upon a wheelWith pangs, that disappointment makes them feel;While Tityus lies, by justice thrown aback,And owns the tortures of a sharper rack;Despair, the vulture, on his liver feeds,And laps each gory life-drop, as it bleeds,—Screams with delight at the prolong’d repast,And owns no more the anguish of a fast!
In Chancery Lane a fabrick[48]rears its head,Whose vermin inmates, by foul plunder fed,In impious candour drown all mental qualms,And cringe for bribes, as beggars ask for alms.There registrar’s in form prepare decreesWith long recitals, adding to their fees;While ill-paid clerks, unable else to live,From office copies equal spoil derive.Woe to the thrifty wretch, whoe’er he be,That asks from South[49]no copy of decree!In vain attention shall he claim; in vainTo ideot Burrows of delay complain.Threats and entreaties meet the same neglect;But take a copy, and secure respect.Thus tam’d, no more the pug-nos’d monkey fear;For all your wants command the pliant ear!Your welcome face will haunt him in his dream,And every smile a copy-order seem.
Nor less are ent’ring clerks by lucre sway’d,Tho’ shame invests their purpose with a shade.If orders press, they will not take a bribe:—No, tempt not thus each conscientious scribe!They spurn all gold you would on them confer;But pray, be gen’rous to the stationer.[50]A name invented rapine to conceal,—As tailors cabbage, but disdain to steal.Thro’ all the court it runs from right to left,By custom sanctified, tho’ still a theft.No outward form of words will vary crime;—Who cribs an egg, may rob the house in time.Once pass the bounds of uprightness, and seeHow quick the transit into knavery!
Of all this dunghill crew there triumphs one,Whom I must name Corruption’s favourite son!Abbott[51], stand forth! thou pious-looking elf,Cloak in that simple face thy love of pelf;Of pelf extorted from the suitor’s purse.Oh! may it prove to thee and thine a curse!Let all reports thy greedy hand hath fil’dStart from their shelves, and hearing thee revil’d,Make known each instance of thy golden lust,And own the muse is in its censure just.
Before my sight another viper’s nest[52]Appears, as foul and loathsome as the rest;Where bad accountants shew no other tact,Than that which centres in the word “substract”—That is, from others’ pocket to transfer(The price of peace) what none would else confer.For this objections, flimsy as the netA spider weaves each passing fly to get,They coin, and language turn from its intentTo speak a purpose that was never meant.Some name mis-spelt—one letter less or more,A petty blunder ne’er observed before,—A mode of diction not precisely plain,When fools attempt the grammar’s art to strain,—Add to delay full many an iron bar,And every effort of progression mar.For, like the hydra, should you crush one head,Behold ten others rising in its stead!
Alcide’s labours seem reviv’d, but noneAre found, like him, to combat vice alone.Where right should flourish, see the weeds of crimeBrought to perfection by the viper’s slime;Guilt spreads unnotic’d over Virtue’s ground,And crawling reptiles spit their venom round.
Time was, when I on common sense intent,These cocker critics fought with argument;But soon I found that weapon better toldWhen slyly pointed with a piece of gold;Conviction follow’d, as I gave it in,And all confess’d my art deserv’d to win—May heaven’s recorder blot away the sin!
Speed onward, Pegasus, and take a peep,Where sixty clerks with their six elders sleep;[53]Of whom the muse no good account can give,—The worst of idlers in a dronish hive.To do their duty on the Bible sworn;—That oath should seem as taken but in scorn.Why should they labour in so bad a trade?Ten pence for ninety words is vilely paid;And six and eight-pence adds but little strength,When taxing bills according to their length.
Luxurious Baines! how often have I kneltTo beg thy presence, ’ere the news was spelt!When idle fits enchained thee to the fire,In vain persuasion, or the look of ire.No force could motion to thy limbs impart;A torpid creature, without head or heart!And yet in thee the same weak point abounds.Paid on account a cheque for fifty poundsThou feelest then a temper far more civil,And for that sum would follow to the devil.No more the blood-drops stagnate in thy veins;No more can truth describe thee, lazy Baines!
Taxation[54]hail! thine academic schoolBehold, where all are taught to judge by rule,Not reason. Fools are ever paid the sameAs those, whose talents grace the rolls of fame.Successful labour gets no better payThan indolence, that loiters on the way;—No matter what the toil, or care, or pain,—Should usage fail, remonstrance pleads in vain.In odious custom judgment lies interr’d;To that is argument and sense referr’d.By general nostrums quacks endanger life,So clerks in court apply the pruning knife.The system lops each rotten bough, ’tis true;But then it severs many a sound one too.Turn to the tedious process of contempt;—Why should my foe from payment be exempt,If, firm in every stage, except the last,He leaves to me all damage of the past?—Nor this the only point for suitors grief;Ten thousand others claim a like relief.If judges must permit delay at all,The costs at least should on the guilty fall:For where is justice, reason, law, or sense,When parties in the wrong escape th’ expense.No shelter lies beneath a silly rule;It serves but to increase the ridicule;—The blund’ring precept of some ancient sage,Whose light is darkness in the present age.
There are, I hear, who bound in plainer calfFrom every item always tax one half—A sapient plan! which he, who draws the bill,Can well defeat without a Turpin’s skill.’Tis but to double what he means to score,And thus hath plunder found another door;—A place of entrance smuggled, as it were,Thro’ one, who should prevent intrusion there!
I leave the cause with which my strain began;For why again the same dull topics scan?What Cross decides will not be right in course,—Of new delays, and fresh appeals the source!The ground, law’s hopeless victim trod before,Must be re-trac’d with tardy pace once more.Years of long trial he must pass again,Till death shall finish, not his suit but pain;And if, perchance, his twentieth heir shall seeAn end to this heart-eating misery,To pay large extra-costs the wretch can’t fail,—His fate St. Lukes, the Workhouse, or a Jail.
A Court of Equity is well defin’dBy those, who call it “very, very kind,—”The dwarf, who to a giant friend applied,Obtain’d large conquests fighting by his side;But every battle lopp’d away a limb.Suitors! are you not very much like him?Without that giant’s aid in vain the war;But his is all the profit, yours the scar.What boots success, if dearly bought with life?Defend me, Heaven! from such victorious strife.Ye dwarfs, no more such strong protection seek,Unequal friendships always hurt the weak!Ye injured, shun all help from Chancery!The Court’s a hell, of which death keeps the key!!!
Still are there cases, where it seems to shine,But ’tis like icicle in iron mine,—Bright for a time, and brilliant beams it’s ray,But soon it breaks or melting fades away;—Thus when the Court, a Foundling Hospital,On orphan babes[55]it’s parent hand lets fall,The deed so charitably good appears,That fond delusion hails the sight with tears;—But soon alas! those tears of joy will turnTo drops of bitter woe, the soul to burn—E’en babes must pay of guardianship the price,And feel the gripe of legal avarice.The masters word must ever guide their fateIn person, conduct, marriage, or estate.Some trees want felling; houses claim repair;A lease is sought; are the conditions fair?Receivers would upon a farm distrain;Guardians of too small maintenance complain;In every case, before an act be done,Must approbation from the Court be won;Aye, e’n ere Hymen’s torch can hallow love,The Court and Master must its joys approve.
Oh! happy infants, how supremely blest!To this parental care is but a jest.A tiger of her young, by death withdrawn,Supplied the loss by suckling a young fawn.Maternal love into her bosom crept,And for a time each wilder passion slept;But famine soon upon the savage grew;With sparkling eyes her foster cub she drewClose to her dugs, where lay the milky sup;And out of pure affection eat it up.Just so the Court each tender orphan treats;But ’tis the fortune, not the babe, it eats.
When men run mad, the Court effectual painsExerts, that none should e’er resume their brains;For picture one, who buried in the tombShould wake again amid the charnel’s gloom,Find his cold corpse by winding sheets secur’d.And thus within a narrow vault immured;Say, would the light of his returning senseDo more, than once again expel it thence?E’en so the maniac, if, by chance, a beamOf wand’ring reason thro’ his head should gleam,What speechless horror would he feel to seeHimself and substance wards of Chancery?That prospect all reviving sense would sever,And plunge his mind in darkest night for ever!
Should partners quarrel in their mutual trade,What friend so ready as the Court to aid?View’d from afar it’s proffers kind may seem,But near acquaintance proves the whole a dream.Death at our call a visit oft will pay,Surprised to find we wish him far away;—So Chancery suitors are compelled with griefTo spurn the hand, from which they sought reliefWhate’er the joint concern; for five per centThe court secures an able management;Keeps just account, but at a large expense,And claims great merit for it’s abstinence.Thus Eldon long of Opera House the warden,And erst ex-manager of Covent Garden,[56]Play’d many parts on the commercial stage;—The most extensive chapman of the age.In iron now, and now in brass he dealt,But gold would never in his fingers melt;With careful hand he kept the precious ore,And every guinea made him wish for more.
When stinted tenants do or threaten waste,Fly for injunctions to the court in haste;And weep at leisure o’er the wasted means,That e’en success from such procedure gleans.[57]Another’s faults are seldom pass’d unknown:How few will condescend to cure their own!
Ye hungry churchmen, fond of tithes in kind,Hunt ancient records, ancient rights to find.Preach to your simple flock of peace with tears,Then,—set them altogether by the ears;And, should you wish sincerely lov’d to be,Drag all the parish into Chancery—For your’s is not the fault, but theirs, who bilkThe starving rector of his tithes of milk,Of corn, potatoes, wood, calves, geese, and swine;Say, claims he not the tenth by right divine?[58]From holy writ the principle is taken,And he who doubts will scarcely save his bacon!
How many jars from nuptial contracts rise,And add fresh force to legal sacrifice!Decay’d affections, ere they quite expire,Erect in Chancery their fun’ral pyre;The husband lights the flambeau for his spouse,And both in turn contention’s spirit rouse:—Still is it singular, ’mid all their strife,How well they keep the part of man and wife.Each on the other loads abuse at first,But ends at last in cursing law the worst.[59]
Of all the copious springs, that Chancery fill,The most prolific is a nabob’s will.From every line a source of contest flows,That wakes to light, when he sinks to repose.How would the miser, who hath left his hoard,To build a place for service of the Lord,Or some more charitable purpose, stare,To see that treasure given to his heir,[60]A thoughtless prodigal, to whom, in hopeOf making better he bequeathed a rope;The only loom which that young gen’rous elfWished the testator to enjoy himself.There’s not a legacy, or land devise,On which some legal question may not rise,Of long litigious misery the root,Set by a hand, that never reaps its fruit.
Oh! Equity, thou o’ergorg’d beast, digestWhat now distends thy maw, and spare the rest.Let weary jackalls slumber for a time,’Till sleep begets an emptiness of crime.When hunger calls, employ again thy pow’r,But mangle not, unless thou can’st devour.[61]Of death itself we little should complain,If lingering torments did not add to pain.
Exhaustion summons; not that matter fails,But idle nature o’er my muse prevails.A weariness in her perhaps may findThe same sensations in a reader’s mind.Enough for me, if one amid the throngShall learn to profit by my humble song;Embark not vainly in a losing cause,Nor seek protection from deficient laws.Enough for me, if by exposure shamed,One wretch shall be from vicious acts reclaim’d;Admit that truth has temper’d censure’s rod,And rescued him from Beelzebub to God!