Off to the court, a cause the criers call, And echo answers from the neighbouring hall. ’Tis ours at last; and now shall law decide How long possession must a title guide,-- If sixty years less one unlucky day Might turn Giles Dobbin from his farm away; Not that a soul disputes his present claim, But what may be, is, as it were, the same:-- That is, if Giles to neighbour Gripe dispose A field, and Gripe should by the bargain lose,-- Giles with delight his contract seeks to keep, And Gripe a loop-hole from the net to creep:-- Nor hard the task; for error shines reveal’d, Tho’ dark itself, from others not conceal’d. But what in law is error? ask the wind, Whence comes it? goes it? what it’s shape or kind? Seek from the moon to know each mystic spot, And judge what constitutes a legal blot. ’Tis something coin’d of ignorance and doubt, Despis’d by sense, yet seldom found without; A light, that glimmers thro’ some narrow screen, Which scarce admits the feeble ray between; A poison’d bubble, floating in the air, That, when it bursts, will leave it’s venom there; A Gorgon’s head, on which the eye, once set, Must think with terror, and not soon forget; A monster gliding underneath the wave, That but appears, to prove the swimmers grave; A flame that gouls from moulder’d coffins rouse To shew the horrors of the Charnel-house; A lamp of Hell, by imp malignant wrought To scare the sight, and agonize the thought; ’Tis this, that mars all peace; engenders strife, And adds self-ruin to the woes of life.