Now all is hush'd, asleep the eye of Care, And Lincoln's-Inn a solemn stillness holds, Save where the Porter whistles o'er the Square; Or Pompey barks, or basket-woman scolds. Save, that from yonder pump, and dusty stair, The moping shoe-black, and the laundry-maid, Complain of such as from the town repair, And leave their usual quarterage unpaid. In those dull chambers, where old parchments lie, And useless drafts, in many a mould'ring heap, Each for parade to catch the client's eye; Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep. In these dead hours, what now remains for me, Still to the stool and to the desk confin'd: Debarr'd from Autumn shades, and liberty, Whose lips are soft as my Cleora's kind!" * * * * * "See Term appears to rule a passive world, And awe the frighted rustick with its train Of wigs and gowns, and bands. The jemmy clerk, Close by his master's side, stands powder'd, while His client at a distance cringes. Now, Thou dear associate of my busy hours, Whom (since Vacation in her sleepy lap Lull'd me to indolence, Circæan queen, Who poisons while she smiles) I have disdain'd, Welcome to my embrace--once again Thy presence let me hail--I greet thee well. Now will I lead thee thro' the maze of law, Perplexing and perplex'd. The knotty point, And ev'ry quirk and quibble, will I shew: And sometimes on huge folios shalt thou tread With black-brow'd sections hideous. There, intent, The puzzling clause shalt thou transcribe, until Thy pilot sickens. Strait he shall revive, And speed thy flight to equitable shores. There shalt thou penetrate each deep recess, And labour'd labyrinth of a Bill _in Canc._ Daring to face tautology. How thick Thy stream will run, respondent to each note Of dull interrogation! Quickly thence, As time may prompt, and active fancy flow, Thy font I'll purify, and turn its course O'er fairy mountains and poetic vales. Say! hadst thou rather the Demurrer's bar Erect invincible, than waft my sighs To my Cythera's bosom, and direct Her eyes, those lamps of beauty, where to shine? When Cupid's messenger, how dost thou fly, Swifter almost than thought! and as I touch, In honour of my love, the Sapphic lyre, Methinks thy feather dances to the tune. But, when I bid thee up the heavy hill, Where Bus'ness sits, to travel, how thy pace Wants quick'ning! this and that way dost thou writhe, Convolv'd, uneasy with the tiresome march. Hold up awhile--for sure is the reward That waits on labour--Bear, oh! bear me thou Thro' long succeeding covenants, from sense However devious. Spread thy black'ning cloud O'er this fair face of parchment--Haste, dispatch