And all that sweetens life is drawn away.
“Nay, this,” you cry, “is common-place, the tale
Of petty tradesmen o’er their evening ale;
There are who, living by the legal pen,
Are held in honour, - ‘Honourable men’”
Doubtless - there are who hold manorial courts,
Or whom the trust of powerful friends supports,
Or who, by labouring through a length of time,
Have pick’d their way, unsullied by a crime.
These are the few: in this, in every place,