Reward thy service ’till the assets fail! The service what? Each sovereign fee to store, And curse the law, because it gives no more; To hear a bankrupt, or a counsel prate,-- Sometimes a dividend to calculate,-- (But this not oft, if truth confessed must be, As lawyers seldom know the rule of three, Or by their art so much the estate reduce, That luckless Cocker is no more of use) To tender oaths in heathen mockery, And send to Newgate all who will not lie; To hold ten meetings at a time, because Ten golden coins, instead of one, it draws; To do and not to do--that is to leave Undone the business, but the cash receive; To make adjournments ’till another day Of what might be dispatched without delay, If Avarice could brook the lesser pay. These are the pleasures of thy realm, where trade, At war with honesty, it’s grave hath made; Where pale Britannia sits in speechless woe, And trembling marks the inroads of a foe, Whose arts at last will public safety sap, And tear the fruits of commerce from her lap-- Atchieve what foreign states have tried in vain-- To crush her empire--or curtail her reign! But speed, my muse, thy roving spirit mend, Or rhymes, like causes, ne’er will have an end. Let portraiture no more thy thoughts engage, Nor stoop to make a law-list of thy page. Where praise is due, let public fame bestow The meed; and scorn to want of merit shew.