One fuch you know, a Layman to your Shame,
And yet the Honour of your Blood and Name.
If you can fuch a Character maintain,

You are too free,-and I'm your Slave again.
But when in Brun's feign'd Battles you delight
More than myself to see two Drunkards fight,

Fool, Rogue, Sot, Blockhead, or fuch Names are mine,

Yours are a Connoiffeur, or deep Divine.

I'm chid for loving a luxurious Bit,

The facred Prize of Learning, Worth, and Wit: And yet some sell their Lands these Bits to buy; Then pray who suffers most from Luxury! I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no Plate, I feal no Bonds, I mortgage no Estate. Befides high Living, Sir, muft wear you out With Surfeits, Qualms, a Fever, or the Gout. By fome new Pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd, And when you fave an Hour you think it loft. To Sports, Plays, Races, from your Books you run, And like all Company except your own. You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme: Why?-but to banish Thought, and murder Time. And yet that Thought which you discharge in vain, Like a foul loaded Piece, recoils again.

Poet. Tom, fetch a Cane, a Whip, a Club, a Stone,—

Servant. For what?

I'll fhoot the Dog.

Poet. A Sword, a Pistol, or a Gun.

Serv. Lord, who would be a Wit?

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming Fit.

Poet. Fly, fly, you Rascal, for your Spade and Fork; For once I'll fet your lazy Bones to work.

Fly, or I'll fend you back without a Groat
To the bleak Mountains where you first were caught.

E PIG RA M.

On the Rev. Mr. Hanbury's PLANTATION, and MUSIC MEETING, at Church Langton, in Leicestershire.

O fweet thy Strain, so thick thy Shade,

The pleas'd Spectator fees

The Miracle once more display'd
Of Orpheus and his Trees.

THE

LAW

THE

STUDE N T.

To George Colman, A. M. of Ch. Ch. Oxford.

Quid tibi cum Cirrhá? quid cum Permessidos undâ ?
Romanum propius divitiufque Forum eft.

NOW

MARTIAL.

OW Chrift-Church left, and fixt at Lincoln's Inn,
Th' important Studies of the Law begin.

Now groan

the Shelves beneath th' unusual Charge Of Records, Statutes, and Reports at large. Each claffic Author feeks his peaceful Nook, And modeft Virgil yields his Place to Coke, No more, ye Bards, for vain Precedence hope, But even Jacob take the Lead of Pope!

While the pil'd Shelves fink down on one another, And each huge Folio has it's cumb'rous Brother, While, arm'd with thefe, the Student views with Awe His Rooms become the Magazine of Law, Say whence fo few fucceed? where thousands aim, So few e'er reach the promis'd Goal of Fame? Say, why Cæcilius quits the gainful Trade For Regimentals, Sword, and fmart Cockade ? L 4

Or

Or Sextus why his firft Profeffion leaves

For narrower Band, plain Shirt, and pudding Sleeves?

The Depth of Law asks Study, Thought, and Care; Shall we feek these in rich Alonzo's Heir?

Such Diligence, alas! is feldom found
In the brisk Heir to forty thousand Pound.
Wealth, that excufes Folly, Sloth creates,
Few, who can spend, e'er learn to get Eftates,
What is to him dry Case, or dull Report,

Who ftudies Fashions at the Inns of Court;
And proves that Thing of Emptiness and Show,
That Mungrel, half-form'd Thing, a Temple-Beau ?
Obferve him daily fauntring up and down,
In purple Slippers, and in filken Gown;
Laft Night's Debauch, his Morning Conversation;
The Coming, all his Evening Preparation.

By Law let others toil to gain Renown!
Florio's a Gentleman, a Man o'th' Town.
He nor Courts, Clients, or the Law regarding,
Hurries from Nando's down to Covent-Garden.
Yet he's a Scholar;-mark him in the Pit
With Critic Catcall found the Stops of Wit!
Supreme at George's he harangues the Throng,
Cenfor of Stile from Tragedy to Song:

Him

Him ev'ry Witling views with fecret Awe,
Deep in the Drama, fhallow in the Law.

Others there are, who, indolent and vain,
Contemn the Science, they can ne'er attain:
Who write and read, but all by Fits and Starts,
And varnish Folly with the Name of Parts;
Trust on to Genius, for they scorn to pore,
'Till e'en that little Genius is no more.

Knowledge in Law Care only can attain,
Where Honour's purchas'd at the Price of Pain.
If, loit'ring, up th' Afcent you cease to climb,
No Starts of Labour can redeem the Time.
Industrious Study wins by flow Degrees,
True Sons of Coke can ne'er be Sons of Eafe.

There are, whom Love of Poetry has fmit,
Who, blind to Intereft, arrant Dupes to Wit,
Have wander❜d devious in the pleafing Road,
With Attic Flowers and Claffic Wreaths beftrew'd;
Wedded to Verse, embrac'd the Muse for Life,
And ta'en, like modern Bucks, their Whores to Wife.
Where'er the Mufe ufurps defpotic Sway,

All other Studies muft of Force give Way.
Int'reft in vain puts in her prudent Claim,
Nonfuited by the pow'rful Plea of Fame.

As