With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can vie, While…

Fond of your freedom spurn the venal fee, And prove he's only great—who dares to be free.

Why, praise is satire in these sinful days.

Honour’s a mistress all mankind pursue, Yet most mistake the false one for the true: Lur’d by the trappings, dazzled by the paint, We worship oft the idol for the saint.

Ye blushing virgins happy are In the chaste nunnery of her breasts— For he'd profane so chaste a fair, Whoe'er should call them Cupid's nests.

For see the rosy May draws nigh; She claims a virgin queen; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

So venerable, so majestic, is this living temple of justice, this immemorial and yet freshly growing fabric of the Common Law, that the least of us is happy who hereafter may point to so much as one stone thereof and say, The work of my …