Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/434

422 Then offer’d at the shrine of Justice, By clients to her priests and trustees. Nor, when we see Astræa stand With even balance in her hand, Must we suppose she has in view, How to give every man his due; Her scales you see her only hold, To weigh her priests' the lawyers gold. Now, should I own your case was grievous, Poor sweaty Paulus, who'd believe us? 'Tis very true, and none denies, At least, that such complaints are wise: 'Tis wise, no doubt, as clients fat you more, To cry, like statesmen, Quanta patimur! But, since the truth must needs be stretched, To prove that lawyers are so wretched; This paradox I'll undertake, For Paulus' and for Lindsay's sake; By topicks, which, though I abomine 'em, May serve as arguments ad hominem: Yet I disdain to offer those Made use of by detracting foes. I own, the curses of mankind Sit light upon a lawyer's mind: The clamours of ten thousand tongues Break not his rest, nor hurt his lungs: I own, his conscience always free, (Provided he has got his fee) Secure of constant peace within, He knows no guilt, who knows no sin. Yet well they merit to be pitied, By clients always overwitted. And though the Gospel seems to say, What heavy burdens lawyers lay Upon