When battering down the plaister from the wall
From every court, with every virtue crown’d,
Where many get, and many lose their bread,
Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle, and confound,
Attornies, clerks, and council—all are fled.
Contending fools too stubborn to agree,
The good fat client (name for ever dear!)
The long-drawn brief, and spirit-stirring fee
No more, ’till Michaelmas shall send them here.
’Till then, no more th’ Exchequer[6] nymphs shall run