Nor yet because he sweetly fiddles;
Nor for his prophecies in riddles: 
But for a more substantial cause—­
Apollo’s patron of the laws;
Whom Paulus ever must adore,
As parent of the golden ore,
By Phoebus, an incestuous birth,
Begot upon his grandam Earth;
By Phoebus first produced to light;
By Vulcan form’d so round and bright: 
Then offer’d at the shrine of Justice,
By clients to her priests and trustees. 
Nor, when we see Astraea[1] stand
With even balance in her hand,
Must we suppose she has in view,
How to give every man his due;
Her scales you see her only hold,
To weigh her priests’ the lawyers’ gold. 
  Now, should I own your case was grievous,
Poor sweaty Paulus, who’d believe us? 
’Tis very true, and none denies,
At least, that such complaints are wise: 
’Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more,
To cry, like statesmen, Quanta patimur!
But, since the truth must needs be stretched
To prove that lawyers are so wretched,
This paradox I’ll undertake,
For Paulus’ and for Lindsay’s sake;
By topics, which, though I abomine ’em,
May serve as arguments ad hominem: 
Yet I disdain to offer those
Made use of by detracting foes. 
  I own the curses of mankind
Sit light upon a lawyer’s mind: 
The clamours of ten thousand tongues
Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs;
I own, his conscience always free,
(Provided he has got his fee,)
Secure of constant peace within,
He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. 
  Yet well they merit to be pitied,
By clients always overwitted. 
And though the gospel seems to say,
What heavy burdens lawyers lay
Upon the shoulders of their neighbour,
Nor lend a finger to their labour,
Always for saving their own bacon;
No doubt, the text is here mistaken: 
The copy’s false, the sense is rack’d: 
To prove it, I appeal to fact;
And thus by demonstration show
What burdens lawyers undergo. 
  With early clients at his door,
Though he was drunk the night before,
And crop-sick, with unclubb’d-for wine,
The wretch must be at court by nine;
Half sunk beneath his briefs and bag,
As ridden by a midnight hag;
Then, from the bar, harangues the bench,
In English vile, and viler French,
And Latin, vilest of the three;
And all for poor ten moidores fee! 
Of paper how is he profuse,
With periods long, in terms abstruse! 
What pains he takes to be prolix! 
A thousand lines to stand for six! 
Of common sense without a word in! 
And is not this a grievous burden? 
  The lawyer is a common drudge,
To fight our cause before the judge: 
And, what is yet a greater curse,
Condemn’d to bear his client’s purse: 
While he at ease, secure and light,
Walks boldly home at dead of night;
When term is ended, leaves the town,
Trots to his country mansion down;