The downfall of the CHANCERY.
OR,
The Lawyers Lamentation.
|
FArewell Lords Commissioners,
|
Your Hon'r lies a bleeding,
|
Injoyn the House (if you can)
|
To stay their proceeding:
|
The Chancery's voted down,
|
Well may your good Lordships frown,
|
And take up this sad tone,
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell Master of the Rolles
|
You must be outed,
|
The house of Lenthals is
|
All-to-be-routed:
|
Jack and Will. fat Knaves be,
|
And full of iniquity,
|
Take 'em Committees t'ee.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell the six Clerks too,
|
Your Pride is falling,
|
You must go cast about,
|
For a new Calling:
|
Humbly complain ye may,
|
But 'tis in vain to pray,
|
For y'are sure to have Nay.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell the Registers,
|
(A sad Dismission)
|
You no more bribes must take
|
For Expedition;
|
Farewell th' Examiners too,
|
Your which, when, where, and how,
|
Will get you little now.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell that Goblin thing
|
Call'd a Subpoena,
|
The hob-nail'd Country Clown,
|
Knows what I mean-a:
|
Over Mountain, over Bog,
|
The poor Bumkins this made jog,
|
Oh 'twas a dreadfull Pugg!
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Adiew, adiew, to Law,
|
And Equity too:
|
Alas poor Gownmen now
|
What will ye do?
|
You must ee'n truckle it to
|
The holy militant Crew,
|
Marry, and a good shift too,
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Like old Alm'nacks you will look,
|
When there's no pleading,
|
Or like the poor Cancell'd Peers,
|
(Titles are fading:)
|
When the Clients at your tayl,
|
And the good Angels fail,
|
You may bid the Squire farewell.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
To Long-lane with your robes
|
If you are wise,
|
And sell the Cooks your Books
|
To put under Pies:
|
What need ye Littleton,
|
Or the thing call'd a Gown,
|
Now your Trade's going down?
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
You had best turn Gifted-men,
|
For y'are long winded,
|
And can cant Gospel too,
|
If y'are so minded:
|
Unlesse you preach or fight,
|
And practise the new light,
|
Your Worships may goe shite.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell the learned Cook,
|
And his Reports,
|
Hee'll be of small account
|
When there's no Courts:
|
John-a-Nokes may well look pale,
|
Hee'l lose his Mannor of Dale,
|
The sword will cut of th' Intayl,
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
What will grim Bradshaw doe,
|
His hopes are routed?
|
To little purpose now,
|
His noddleships mooted,
|
(His face and name suit well,
|
Black as the Prince of Hell,)
|
He may bid th' long robe farewell.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
What will Post Prid--. doe now,
|
That pamperd Saint,
|
His greedy stomack must
|
Suffer a long Lent:
|
Shortly perhaps hee'l rue,
|
That he ere Church-lands knew,
|
(Good Devil take your due.)
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
What will young Keble do,
|
When his Lord Sire
|
Is put besides his place?
|
(Alas poor Squire!)
|
Hee'l find th' case altered,
|
His breath will scarce get bread,
|
To put in his Fools head.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
What will old Marriot doe
|
When ther's no motions?
|
His Belly'll grumble sure,
|
And raise commotions:
|
Every fart he lets fly,
|
Could it but speak, would cry,
|
Hang up the Souldiery.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
What will poor Scribes do now
|
For want of mony?
|
They must live chast perforce,
|
No Coyn, no Coney:
|
The Goose quill goes to wrack,
|
This will make Bawds to crack,
|
Their trading will grow slack.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
Farewell good dish and dash,
|
No more long Scribles;
|
Howl and lament ye Whores,
|
And strain your Trebbles,
|
To such a dolefull height,
|
That it may move the State,
|
To pity your sad Estate.
|
Ohone, Ohone.
|
|
|
|
|
|