The Barrow-wheeler at the Porter scolds.
From every court, with ev’ry virtue crown’d!
Where numbers gain, and numbers lose their bread,
Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle and confound,
Attornies, clerks, and counsel—all are fled.
Contending fools! too stubborn to agree,
The good warm client, name for ever dear
The long-drawn brief, the spirit-stirring fee,
No more till Michaelmas, shall send them here.
’Till then, no more the orange nymphs shall ply,