NO court allows thofe partial interlopers
Of Law and Equity, two fingle paupers,
T'encounter hand to hand at bars, and trounce
Each other gratis in a fuit at once:
For one at one time, and upon free cost, is
Enough to play the knave and fool with juftice;
And, when the one fide bringeth custom in,
And th' other lays out half the reckoning,
The devil himself will rather chufe to play
At paltry small-game than fit out, they say;
But when at all there's nothing to be got,
The old wife, Law and Justice, will not trot.
THE law, that makes more knaves than e'er it hung, Little confiders right or wrong;
But, like authority, 's foon fatisfy'd
When 'tis to judge on its own fide.
THE law can take a purse in open court, Whilft it condemns a lefs delinquent for 't.
WHO can deferve, for breaking of the laws, A greater penance than an honest cause ?
ALL thofe that do but rob and fteal enough,
Are punishment and court of justice proof,
And need not fear, nor be concern'd a straw,
In all the idle bugbears of the law,
But confidently rob the gallows too,
As well as other fufferers, of their due.
OLD laws have not been fuffer'd to be pointed,
To leave the fenfe at large the more disjointed,
And furnish lawyers, with the greater eafe,
To turn and wind them any way they please.
The Statute Law 's their Scripture, and Reports
The ancient reverend fathers of their courts';
Records their general councils; and Decifions
Of judges on the bench their fole traditions,
For which, like Catholics, they 've greater awe,
As th' arbitrary and unwritten law,
And strive perpetually to make the standard
Of right between the tenant and the landlord
And, when two cafes at a trial meet,
That, like indentures, jump exactly fit,
And all the points, like Chequer-tallies, fuit,
The Court directs the obftinat'st dispute;
'There's no decorum us'd of time, nor place,
Nor quality, nor perfon, in the case,
A MAN of quick and active wit
For drudgery is more unfit,
Compar'd to those of duller parts,
Than running-nags to draw in carts.
TOO much or too little wit
Do only render th' owners fit
For nothing, but to be undone
Much easier than if they 'ad none.
AS thofe that are stark blind can trace
The nearest ways from place to place,
And find the right way easier out,
Than thofe that hood-wink'd try to do 't;
So tricks of state are manag'd best
By those that are suspected least,
And greatest finesse brought about
By engines most unlike to do 't.
ALL the politics of the great
Are like the cunning of a cheat,
That lets his falfe dice freely run,
And trufts them to themselves alone,
But never lets a true one ftir
Without fome fingering trick or flur;
And, when the gamefters doubt his play,
Conveys his falfe dice fafe
And leaves the true ones in the lurch,
T'endure the torture of the search.
WHAT elfe does history use to tell us,
But tales of fubjects being rebellious;
The vain perfidiousness of lords,
And fatal breach of princes' words;
The sottish pride and infolence
Of statesmen, and their want of fenfe ;
Their treachery, that undoés, of custom,
Their own felves first, next those who trust them?
BECAUSE a feeble limb 's careft,
And more indulg'd than all the rest,
So frail and tender confciences
Are humour'd to do what they please;
When that which goes for weak and feeble Is found the most incorrigible,
To outdo all the fiends in hell
With rapine, murther, blood, and zeal,
AS at th' approach of winter all
The leaves of great trees ufe to fall,
And leave them naked to engage
With storms and tempefts when they rage;
While humbler plants are found to wear
Their fresh green liveries all the year :
So, when the glorious feafon 's gone
With great men, and hard times come on,
The great'ft calamities opprefs
The greatest ftill, and spare the less.
AS when a greedy raven fees
A fheep entangled by the fleece,
With hafty cruelty he flies
T'attack him, and pick out his eyes ;
So do thofe vultures ufe, that keep
Poor prifoners faft like filly fheep,
As greedily to prey on all
That in their ravenous clutches fall:
For thorns and brambles, that came in
To wait upon the curfe for fin,
And were no part o' th' first creation,
But, for revenge, a new plantation,
Are yet the fitt'st materials
T'enclose the earth with living walls.
So jailors, that are most accurft,
Are found moft fit in being work.
THERE needs no other charm, nor conjurer, 'To raise infernal fpirits up, but fear;
That makes men pull their horns in like a fnail,
That's both a prisoner to itself, and jail;
Draws more fantastic shapes than in the grains
of knotted wood in fome men's crazy brains,
When all the cocks they think they fee, and bulls,
Are only in the infides of their fculls.
THE Roman Mufti, with his triple crown, Does both the earth, and hell, and heaven, own, Befide th' imaginary territory,
He lays a title to in Purgatory;
Declares himself an abfolute free prince
In his dominions, only over fins ;
But as for heaven, fince it lies fo far
Above him, is but only titular,
And, like his Cross-keys badge upon a tavern,
Has nothing there to tempt, command, or govern:
Yet, when he comes to take accompt, and share
The profit of his proftituted ware,
He finds his gains increafe, by fin and women,
Above his richest titular dominion,
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