(I only dream and sing its cheer,
My Muse keeps Lent throughout the year)
That holly, labor'd o'er and o'er,
Is cobwebs of the lawyer's lore,
Where frisky flies, on gambols borne,
Find out the snare, when lost, undone.
"These dangling webs, with dirt and age,
Display their tatter'd equipage,
So like the antiquarian crew,
That those in every thread I view.