Now all is hush’d, asleep the eye of care,
And Lincoln’s Inn a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the porter whistles o’er the square,
Or Pompey barks, or basket woman scolds,
Save that from yonder pump, and dirty stair,
The moping shoe-black and the laundry-maid,
Complain of such as from the town repair,
And leave their little quarterage unpaid.
In those dull chambers where old parchments lie,