Oft would he bid me fetch him some report,
And turn from case to case with look forlorn,
Then, bustling, would he run from court to court,
As if some rule of his were coming on.
One morn I miss’d that figure lean and lank,
And that pale face, so often mark’d by me,
Another case—nor yet was he in Banc,
Nor at th’ Exchequer, nor the Pleas was he.
The next day, as at morn I chanced to see
Death’s peremptory paper in The Times,