Others, more merry, as just beginning,
Around on a _point of law_ were spinning;
Or balanced aloft, 'twixt _Bill_ and _Answer_,
Lead at each end, like a tight-rope dancer.
Some were so _cross_ that nothing could please 'em;-
Some gulpt down _affidavits_ to ease 'em--
All were in motion, yet never a one,
Let it _move_ as it might, could ever move _on_,
"These," said the Spirit, "you plainly see,
"Are what they call suits in Chancery!"
I heard a loud screaming of old and young,
Like a chorus by fifty Vellutis sung;
Or an Irish Dump ("the words by Moore ")
At an amateur concert screamed in score;--
So harsh on my ear that wailing fell
Of the wretches who in this Limbo dwell!
It seemed like the dismal symphony
Of the shapes' Aeneas in hell did see;
Or those frogs whose legs a barbarous cook
Cut off and left the frogs in the brook,
To cry all night, till life's last dregs,
"Give us our legs!--give us our legs!"
Touched with the sad and sorrowful scene,
I askt what all this yell might mean,
When the Spirit replied, with a grin of glee,
"'Tis the cry of the Suitors in Chancery!"
I lookt and I saw a wizard rise,[1]
With a wig like a cloud before men's eyes.
In his aged hand he held a wand,
Wherewith he beckoned his embryo band,
And they moved and moved as he waved it o'er,
But they never get on one inch the more.
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