The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Now Christ-Church left, and fixt at Lincoln's Inn,
Th' important studies of the Law begin.
Now groan the shelves beneath th' unusual charge
Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large.
Each Classic Author seeks his peaceful nook,
And modest Virgil yields his place to Coke.
No more, ye Bards, for vain precedence hope,
But even Jacob take the lead of Pope!

While the pil'd shelves sink down on one another,
And each huge folio has its cumb'rous brother,
While, arm'd with these, the Student views with awe
His rooms become the magazine of Law,
Say whence so few succeed? where thousands aim,
So few e'er reach the promis'd goal of fame?

Say, why Cæcilius quits a gainful trade
For regimentals, sword, and smart cockade?
Or Sextus why his first profession leaves
For narrower band, plain shirt, and pudding sleeves?

The depth of law asks study, thought, and care?
Shall we seek these in rich Alonzo's heir?
Such diligence, alas! is seldom found
In the brisk heir to forty thousand pound.
Wealth, that excuses folly, sloth creates,
Few, who can spend, e'er learn to get estates.
What is to him dry case, or dull report,
Who studies fashions at the Inns of Court;
And proves that thing of emptiness and show,
That mungrel, half-form'd thing, a Temple-Beau?
Observe him daily saunt'ring up and down,
In purple slippers, and in silken gown;
Last night's debauch, his morning conversation;
The coming, all his evening preparation.

By Law let others toil to gain renown!
Florio's a gentleman, a man o'th' town.
He nor courts, clients, or the law regarding,
Hurries from Nando's down to Covent-Garden:
Yet he's a Scholar;—mark him in the Pit
With critic catcall sound the stops of wit!

Supreme at George's he harangues the throng,
Censor of stile from tragedy to song:
Him ev'ry witling views with secret awe,
Deep in the Drama, shallow in the Law.

Others there are, who, indolent and vain,
Contemn the science, they can ne'er attain:
Who write, and read, but all by sits and starts,
And varnish folly with the name of Parts;
Trust all to Genius, for they scorn to pore,
Till e'en that little Genius is no more.

Knowledge in Law care only can attain,
Where honour's purchas'd at the price of pain.
If, loit'ring, up th' ascent you cease to climb,
No starts of labour can redeem the time.
Industrious study wins by slow degrees,
True sons of Coke can ne'er be sons of ease.

There are, whom Love of Poetry has smit,
Who, blind to interest, arrant dupes to wit,
Have wander'd devious in the pleasing road,
With Attic flowers and Classic wreaths bestrew'd:
Wedded to verse, embrac'd the Muse for life,
And ta'en, like modern bucks, their whores to wife.

Where'er the Muse usurps despotic sway,
All other studies must of force give way.
Int'rest in vain puts in her prudent claim,
Nonsuited by the pow'rful plea of fame.
As well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.
On Littleton Coke gravely thus remarks,
(Remember this, ye rhyming Temple Sparks!
“In all our author's tenures, be it noted,
“This is the fourth time any verse is quoted.”
Which, 'gainst the Muse and verse, may well imply
What lawyers call a noli prosequi.

Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What tho' the sprightly scene, well acted, draws
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some Monthly Grub, some Dennis of the age,
In print cries shame on the degen'rate stage

If haply Churchill strive with generous aim,
To fan the sparks of genius to a flame;
If all unask'd, unknowing, and unknown,
By noting thy desert, he prove his own;
Envy shall strait to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her spleen, and gall, and venom there,
Thee, and thy works, and all thy friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,
Swear your own hand the flatt'ring likeness drew,
Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.

Well I remember oft your friends have said,
(Friends, whom the surest maxims ever led)
Turn parson, Colman, that's the way to thrive:
Your parsons are the happiest men alive.
Judges, there are but twelve, and never more,
But Stalls untold, and Bishops, twenty-four.
Of pride and claret, sloth and ven'son full,
Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull!
He ne'er, good man, need pensive vigils keep
To preach his audience once a week to sleep;
On rich preferments battens at his ease,
Nor sweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.

Thus they advis'd. I know thee better far;
And cry, stick close, dear Colman, to the Bar!

If genius warm thee, where can genius call
For nobler action than in yonder hall?
'Tis not enough each morn, on Term's approach,
To club your legal threepence for a coach;
Then at the Hall to take your filent stand,
With ink-horn and long note-book in your hand,
Marking grave serjeants cite each wise report,
And noting down sage dictums from the court,
With overwhelming brow, and law-learn'd face,
The index of your book of common-place.

These are mere drudges, that can only plod,
And tread the path their dull forefathers trod,
Doom'd thro' law's maze, without a clue, to range,
From second Vernon down to second Strange.
Do Thou uplift thine eyes to happier wits!
Dulness no longer on the woolpack sits;
No longer on the drawling dronish herd
Are the first honours of the law confer'd;
But they whose fame reward's due tribute draws,
Whose active merit challenges applause,
Like glorious beacons, are set high to view,
To mark the paths which genius shou'd persue.

O for thy spirit, Mansfield! at thy name
What bosom glows not with an active flame?

Alone from Jargon born to rescue Law,
From precedent, grave hum, and formal saw!
To strip chican'ry of its vain pretence,
And marry Common Law to Common Sense!

Pratt! on thy lips persuasion ever hung!
English falls, pure as Manna, from thy tongue:
On thy voice truth may rest, and on thy plea
Unerring Henley found the just decree.

Henley! than whom, to Hardwick's wellrais'd fame,
No worthier second Roya! George cou'd name:
No lawyer of prerogative; no too!
Fashion'd in black corruption's pliant school;
Form'd 'twixt the People and the Crown to stand,
And hold the scales of right with even hand!

True to our hopes, and equal to his birth,
See, see in York the force of lineal worth!

But why their sev'ral merits need I tell?
Why on each honour'd sage's praises dwell?
Wilmot how well his place, or Foster fills?
Or shrew'd sense beaming from the eye of Wills?

Such, while thou see'st the public care engage,
Their fame increasing with increasing age,
Rais'd by true genius, bred in Phœbus' school,
Whose warmth of soul sound judgment knew to cool;
—With such illustrious proofs before your eyes,
Think not, my friend, you've too much wit to rise:
Think of the bench, the coif, long robe, and fee,
And leave the Press to ------

See the very curious and very similar criticisms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in the two Reviews, together with the most malicious and insolent attack on the writer, and the author of this Collection in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the succeeding month, containing fresh insults on one of the injured parties.