But kings have mercy, in these happy times. 
Or surely One had suffered for his rhymes;
Our glorious Edwards and our Henrys bold,
So touch’d, had kept the reprobate in hold;
But he escap’d,—­nor fear, thank Heav’n, have I,
Who love my king, for such offence to die. 
But I am taught the danger would be much,
If these poor lines should one attorney touch —
(One of those Limbs of Law who’re always here;
The Heads come down to guide them twice a year.)
I might not swing, indeed, but he in sport
Would whip a rhymer on from court to court;
Stop him in each, and make him pay for all
The long proceedings in that dreaded Hall:  —
Then let my numbers flow discreetly on,
Warn’d by the fate of luckless Coddrington, {3}
Lest some attorney (pardon me the name)
Should wound a poor solicitor for fame. 
   One Man of Law in George the Second’s reign
Was all our frugal fathers would maintain;
He too was kept for forms; a man of peace,
To frame a contract, or to draw a lease: 
He had a clerk, with whom he used to write
All the day long, with whom he drank at night,
Spare was his visage, moderate his bill,
And he so kind, men doubted of his skill. 
   Who thinks of this, with some amazement sees,
For one so poor, three flourishing at ease;
Nay, one in splendour! see that mansion tall,
That lofty door, the far-resounding hall;
Well-furnish’d rooms, plate shining on the board,
Gay liveried lads, and cellar proudly stored: 
Then say how comes it that such fortunes crown
These sons of strife, these terrors of the town? 
   Lo! that small Office! there th’ incautious guest
Goes blindfold in, and that maintains the rest;
There in his web, th’ observant spider lies,
And peers about for fat intruding flies;
Doubtful at first, he hears the distant hum,
And feels them fluttering as they nearer come;
They buzz and blink, and doubtfully they tread
On the strong bird-lime of the utmost thread;
But when they’re once entangled by the gin,
With what an eager clasp he draws them in;
Nor shall they ’scape, till after long delay,
And all that sweetens life is drawn away. 
   “Nay, this,” you cry, “is common-place, the tale
Of petty tradesmen o’er their evening ale;
There are who, living by the legal pen,
Are held in honour,—­’Honourable men’”
   Doubtless—­there are who hold manorial courts,
Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports,
Or who, by labouring through a length of time,
Have pick’d their way, unsullied by a crime. 
These are the few:  in this, in every place,
Fix the litigious rupture-stirring race;
Who to contention as to trade are led,
To whom dispute and strife are bliss and bread. 
   There is a doubtful Pauper, and we think
’Tis not with us to give him meat and drink;
There is a Child; and ’tis not mighty clear
Whether the mother lived with us a year: