 | The Distressed Poet |  |
What! says great Cambria's fiery Dame,
Her little bullet-eyes all flame,
What! Doctor, don't your sniv'ling spirit
Know the high blood that I inherit?
Train'd from my youth in ev'ry art
Law's studied Mysteries could impart,
All its close labyrinths known to me;
My poor dear Father had a key,
By which he was for ever finding
Some secret clue, some tangled winding,
Where he his Adversaries mir'd,
And his own Clients often tir'd.—
I have besides a certain slight,
By which what's black I show as white;
Nor do I argument e'er lack,
To change again what's white to black.—
The Law's a Vane stuck on a pivot,
It turns with every Wind you give it;
You think it blows for you its best,
Its chops about from East, due West,
And at its motions whilst you're looking,
You find you are completely took in.—
How oft you hear weak people cry,
My cause is clear in the Law's Eye!
But I to such poor souls could hint
A Secret, that Law's Eyes both squint;
They think that full on them they play,
Tho' they look quite a different way,
So hard to get their real Focus,
They're aptly call'd Law's Hocus Pocus.—
Therefore, good Master Doctor, ne'er
About this Rebel's anger care;
Should he, in lack of Sense or Wit,
Presume to serve me with a Writ,
On his unguarded side I'll try
The force of my Artillery;
Sue in what Court he will, I'll match him,
And ere I've done I'll surely catch him.
Lord help the Fool! he little knows
The Devil himself can't me oppose:
He'll in the Hall a stranger roam,
Vexation there is quite at home;
On every side I've friends by dozens,
And half the Lawyers are my Cousins.
Her little bullet-eyes all flame,
What! Doctor, don't your sniv'ling spirit
Know the high blood that I inherit?
Train'd from my youth in ev'ry art
Law's studied Mysteries could impart,
All its close labyrinths known to me;
My poor dear Father had a key,
By which he was for ever finding
Some secret clue, some tangled winding,
62
And his own Clients often tir'd.—
I have besides a certain slight,
By which what's black I show as white;
Nor do I argument e'er lack,
To change again what's white to black.—
The Law's a Vane stuck on a pivot,
It turns with every Wind you give it;
You think it blows for you its best,
Its chops about from East, due West,
And at its motions whilst you're looking,
You find you are completely took in.—
How oft you hear weak people cry,
My cause is clear in the Law's Eye!
But I to such poor souls could hint
A Secret, that Law's Eyes both squint;
They think that full on them they play,
Tho' they look quite a different way,
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They're aptly call'd Law's Hocus Pocus.—
Therefore, good Master Doctor, ne'er
About this Rebel's anger care;
Should he, in lack of Sense or Wit,
Presume to serve me with a Writ,
On his unguarded side I'll try
The force of my Artillery;
Sue in what Court he will, I'll match him,
And ere I've done I'll surely catch him.
Lord help the Fool! he little knows
The Devil himself can't me oppose:
He'll in the Hall a stranger roam,
Vexation there is quite at home;
On every side I've friends by dozens,
And half the Lawyers are my Cousins.
| The Distressed Poet | |