The game they hunted quickly made them foes. 
Some house the father by his art had won
Seem’d a fit cause of contest to the son,
Who raised a claimant, and then found a way
By a staunch witness to secure his prey. 
The people cursed him, but in times of need
Trusted in one so certain to succeed: 
By Law’s dark by-ways he had stored his mind
With wicked knowledge, how to cheat mankind. 
Few are the freeholds in our ancient town;
A copyright from heir to heir came down,
From whence some heat arose, when there was doubt
In point of heirship; but the fire went out,
Till our attorney had the art to raise
The dying spark, and blow it to a blaze: 
For this he now began his friends to treat;
His way to starve them was to make them eat,
And drink oblivious draughts—­to his applause,
It must be said, he never starved a cause;
He’d roast and boil’d upon his board; the boast
Of half his victims was his boil’d and roast;
And these at every hour:  —­he seldom took
Aside his client, till he’d praised his cook;
Nor to an office led him, there in pain
To give his story and go out again;
But first the brandy and the chine where seen,
And then the business came by starts between. 
   “Well, if ’tis so, the house to you belongs;
But have you money to redress these wrongs? 
Nay, look not sad, my friend; if you’re correct,
You’ll find the friendship that you’d not expect.” 
   If right the man, the house was Swallow’s own;
If wrong, his kindness and good-will were shown: 
“Rogue!” “Villain!” “Scoundrel!” cried the losers all: 
He let them cry, for what would that recall? 
At length he left us, took a village seat,
And like a vulture look’d abroad for meat;
The Borough-booty, give it all its praise,
Had only served the appetite to raise;
But if from simple heirs he drew their land,
He might a noble feast at will command;
Still he proceeded by his former rules,
His bait their pleasures, when he fished for fools —
Flagons and haunches on his board were placed,
And subtle avarice look’d like thoughtless waste: 
Most of his friends, though youth from him had fled,
Were young, were minors, of their sires in dread;
Or those whom widow’d mothers kept in bounds,
And check’d their generous rage for steeds and hounds;
Or such as travell’d ’cross the land to view
A Christian’s conflict with a boxing Jew: 
Some too had run upon Newmarket heath
With so much speed that they were out of breath;
Others had tasted claret, till they now
To humbler port would turn, and knew not how. 
All these for favours would to Swallow run,
Who never sought their thanks for all he’d done;
He kindly took them by the hand, then bow’d
Politely low, and thus his love avow’d —
(For he’d a way that many judged polite,
A cunning dog—­he’d fawn before he’d bite) —
   “Observe, my friends, the