Classic Poem

Mourn , all ye Graces, Loves, and Sports;
I mean, all ye that haunt the Courts.
Ye legal Sports, more fine than funny;
And all ye Loves — of taking money;
And all ye Graces, frank and free,
Who ever keep the Rule of Three,
Holding out on either side
Your hands, too dear to be denied;
And as the Indian boasted him,
Barefaced, every precious limb.

Mourn, mourn for your approaching ills,
Shed tears of ink, and shake your quills;
For lo! those charming friends of yours,
Those little shapes and mighty doers,
Those cousins of the mining elves,
(Those precious hums, betwixt ourselves,)
Those friends with whom you were so thick,
The Fees, the little Fees, are sick!
In several places, far and near,
Some droop, some die, nay disappear;
Like birds of passage, strangely gone;
Or locusts, which the saints fed on
In vain the mourners, all in sables,
Consult their books, and thump their tables;
In vain they toss their hands about,
And wait, and keep a sharp look out:
In vain one smiles, as if at ease,
And says that he " expects " his fees:
While others, with bewildered stares,
As vainly stand " demanding" theirs
The Fees, the Fees, quick-eared no more,
Are not forthcoming, as before:
But as the lofty bard has told
Of those great exiled gods of old,
The " oracles" are all struck dumb,
And now are thought an " hideous hum"
You know (betwixt ourselves) that Fees,
Like other ancient deities,
With all their ushers and assistants,
Depend on faith for their existence;
And so my countrymen of late,
Not being in the happiest state,
And finding that on all occasions,
Even of bloody decimations,
Their pockets must be picked to please
The very slaughterers, and appease
Some Faws and Fums which they call Fees,
Have chosen flatly to deny 'em,
Rather than so be ruined by 'em;
And thus the worship's null and void:
A Fee denied 's a Fee destroyed.
There 's one man, ev'n before the Mayor,
Denies the Fees; and they're not there.
Another, down at Chester, cries,
Fees ! Don't tell me your precious lies.
Another, when he 's shown a book
To turn him, bids them mend their look
At Lancaster and Manchester,
It makes the very benches stir
To hear the angry dogs blaspheme:
But then the Fees — it ruins them

Oh sweeter far in your vagaries
Than the tricks of elves and fairies,
Doubly dear, departing Fees,
Pocket-blessing fitnesses,
More convenient to be handled
Than the best god ever dandled,
Chinese Bonze, or old house Idol,
Or, young Romish flogger, thy doll;
Must ye then be at the mercy
Of the poorest lips that curse ye?
Must ye, when a mouth says Nay,
From our fond hands fade away?
Fade from our expecting touch?
Pious claw, and poor-house clutch?
Surely (and I say it, loathing)
People soon will swear for nothing!
Tell the truth, and be unwilling
To buy the privilege with a shilling!
Be accused, nor pay the score!
Be absolved, yet pay no more!
Nay, your holiest clerks, O Fees,
Soon will miss ye by degrees.
Not alone will scorners flout ye,
Children will be born without ye!
Youths and damsels will form ties,
Yet think no more of Fees than Fies !
Yea, the dead man wear his pall,
And you be not the all in all!