When stinted tenants do or threaten waste,
Fly for injunctions to the court in haste;
And weep at leisure o’er the wasted means,
That e’en success from such procedure gleans.[57]
Another’s faults are seldom pass’d unknown:
How few will condescend to cure their own!
Ye hungry churchmen, fond of tithes in kind,
Hunt ancient records, ancient rights to find.
Preach to your simple flock of peace with tears,
Then,—set them altogether by the ears;
And, should you wish sincerely lov’d to be,
Drag all the parish into Chancery—
For your’s is not the fault, but theirs, who bilk
The starving rector of his tithes of milk,
Of corn, potatoes, wood, calves, geese, and swine;
Say, claims he not the tenth by right divine?[58]
From holy writ the principle is taken,
And he who doubts will scarcely save his bacon!
How many jars from nuptial contracts rise,
And add fresh force to legal sacrifice!
Decay’d affections, ere they quite expire,
Erect in Chancery their fun’ral pyre;
The husband lights the flambeau for his spouse,
And both in turn contention’s spirit rouse:—
Still is it singular, ’mid all their strife,
How well they keep the part of man and wife.
Each on the other loads abuse at first,
But ends at last in cursing law the worst.[59]
Of all the copious springs, that Chancery fill,
The most prolific is a nabob’s will.
From every line a source of contest flows,
That wakes to light, when he sinks to repose.
How would the miser, who hath left his hoard,
To build a place for service of the Lord,
Or some more charitable purpose, stare,
To see that treasure given to his heir,[60]
A thoughtless prodigal, to whom, in hope
Of making better he bequeathed a rope;
The only loom which that young gen’rous elf
Wished the testator to enjoy himself.
There’s not a legacy, or land devise,
On which some legal question may not rise,
Of long litigious misery the root,
Set by a hand, that never reaps its fruit.
Oh! Equity, thou o’ergorg’d beast, digest
What now distends thy maw, and spare the rest.
Let weary jackalls slumber for a time,
’Till sleep begets an emptiness of crime.
When hunger calls, employ again thy pow’r,
But mangle not, unless thou can’st devour.[61]
Of death itself we little should complain,
If lingering torments did not add to pain.
Exhaustion summons; not that matter fails,
But idle nature o’er my muse prevails.
A weariness in her perhaps may find
The same sensations in a reader’s mind.
Enough for me, if one amid the throng
Shall learn to profit by my humble song;
Embark not vainly in a losing cause,
Nor seek protection from deficient laws.
Enough for me, if by exposure shamed,
One wretch shall be from vicious acts reclaim’d;
Admit that truth has temper’d censure’s rod,
And rescued him from Beelzebub to God!
THE END.
——————
LONDON:
Printed by J. Kay, 1, Welbeck Street,
Cavendish Square.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Market day to a country attorney, is like sowing-time to the corn-field. It lays the foundation of his professional harvest. From the conferences of that day spring all his actions at law, and his chancery suits. Litigation, encouraged by legal advice and good ale, warms into action, and is no longer restrained by the dictates of sober prudence.
[2] Every one knows the difficulty of reading Bell’s opinions. He is said to have three sorts of hand writing: the first he can read himself, but his clerk cannot. The second his clerk can read, but he cannot. The third, no human being; no, not even the most learned decipherer of hieroglyphics, can make out.