You see him quit the bench, and strait appear
An huge old gouty counsel at the bar;
Bawl for his client, wrest the tortur'd laws
From their true sense, and mould them to the cause;
In solemn form harangue the list'ning crowd,
And hem and cough emphatically loud;
Blest art indeed! and glorious eloquence,
Where empty noise supplies the want of sense.
For meaning, signs, and motions he affords,
And interjections for the want of words.
What shape to you, O S**'s, is unknown!
What face, but you adopt into your own!
At the least hint, fictitious crowds you raise,
And multiply yourself ten thousand ways:
This moment, to indulge the mirthful vein,
A fool's or doctor's person you sustain;
The next resume yourself and sense again.