If, musing in this lonely attic flight
Some youthful students should inquire thy fate,
Haply some usher of the court may say—
“At noon I’ve mark’d him oft, ’tween nine and ten
Striding, with hasty step, the Strand away,
At four o’clock to saunter back again.
There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge,
Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry,
Listless for hours he’d sit, and never budge,
And pore upon a book-the Lord knows why.