Last 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 ftops of wit!
Supreme at George's he harangues the throng,
Cenfor of stile from tragedy to fong:
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; Truft on to Genius, for they scorn to pore,

Till e'en that little Genius is no more.

Knowlege 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 ftarts of labour can redeem the time.
Industrious study wins by flow degrees,
True fons of Coke can ne'er be fons of ease.

There are, whom Love of Poetry has smit,
Who, blind to interest, arrant dupes to wit,
Have wander'd devious in the pleasing road,
With Attic flowers and Claffic wreaths beftrew'd :
Wedded to verfe, 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 well you might weigh lead against a feather,
As ever jumble wit and law together.

On Littleton Coke gravely thus remarks,

(Remember this, ye rhyming Temple Sparks !)

"In all our author's tenures, be it noted, "This is the fourth time any verse is quoted." Which, 'gainst the Muse and verse, may well, imply What lawyers call a noli profequi.

Quit then, dear George, O quit the barren field,
Which neither profit nor reward can yield!
What tho' the sprightly scene, well-acted, draws
From unpack'd Englishmen unbrib'd applause,
Some Monthly Grub, fome Dennis of the age,
In print cries shame on the degen'rate stage
If haply Churchill strive, with generous aim,
To fan the fparks of genius to a flame;

all UNASK'D, UNKNOWING, AND UNKNOWN,
By noting thy defert, he prove his own;
Envy shall strait to Hamilton's repair,
And vent her spleen, and gall, and venom there,

Thee,

* See the very curious and very fimilar criticisms on the comedy of the Jealous Wife, in the two Reviews, together with the most malicious and infolent attack on that writer, and the author of this Collection in the Critical Review for March; an injury poorly repaired by a lame apology in the Review for the fucceeding Month, containing fresh infults on one of the injured parties.

Thee, and thy works, and all thy friends decry,
And boldly print and publish a rank lie,

Swear your own hand the flatt'ring likeness drew,
Swear your own breath fame's partial trumpet blew.

Well I remember oft your friends have said, (Friends, whom the fureft maxims ever led) Turn parfon, Colman, that's the way to thrive ; Your parfons are the happiest men alive. Judges, there are but twelve, and never more, But Stalls untold, and Bishops, twenty-four. Of pride and claret, floth and venʼson full, Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull! He ne'er, good man, need penfive vigils keep To preach his audience once a week to sleep; On rich preferments battens at his ease, Nor fweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.

Thus they advis'd. I know thee better far; And cry, ftick clofe, dear Colman, to the Bar! If genius warm thee, where can genius call

For nobler action than in yonder hall ?

'Tis not enough each morn, on Term's approach, To club your legal threepence for a coach;

Then at the Hall to take your filent stand,

With ink-horn and long note-book in your hand,
Marking grave ferjeants cite each wife report,
And noting down fage dictums from the court,
With overwhelming brow, and law-learn'd face,
The index of your book of common-place.

These are mere drudges, that can only plod,
And tread the path their dull forefathers trod,
Doom'd thro' law's maze, without a clue, to range,
From fecond Vernon down to fecond Strange.
Do Thou uplift thine eyes to happier wits!
Dulnefs no longer on the woolpack fits;
No longer on the drawling dronish herd
Are the first honours of the law confer'd ;

But they, whose fame reward's due tribute draws,
Whose active merit challenges applause,

Like glorious beacons, are fet high to view,

To mark the paths which genius fhou'd perfue.

O for