Some wag should ask—the Pettifogger’s fate
In sneering mood, some brother quill, will say,
“I’ve seen him oft at tavern table sit;
“Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away,
“And eye the joint, just taken from the spit,
“One morn I miss’d him in this ’custom’d hall,
“And at the room, where he was wont to be,
“His boy I saw, who register’d my call;
“But by yon steps—nor at his desk was he.