XXV. Alas for those whose wit is all too slow. And cannot apt excuse for 'journment show; "Trial when reached," his Honor cries, "or else To foot of Calendar the cases go." XXVII. Myself when young, did often ponder o'er The N. Y. Reps., but this I do no more, For they, I ween, hold nothing but the guess. Which last tribunals dignify by "law."
XXXVIII. Our latest case by precedent controlled, Adjudged by what adown the aeons rolled,— Marconi's patent measured by the law Of carriers, dug up from Ventris' mould. XLVI. Hope not, О brother, e'er to reach the goal When bookish tide will cease to higher roll; Treatise, report and text ibook endless come, "Crcscit cundo" to affright the soul. LXXII. To that monstrosity we call the "Code," Sprung from the Dragon's teeth which Field once sowed, For aid appeal not. Know you not that right By technicality is now o'errode?
L. A hair, perchance, divides the false and true; Aye, and the Court's decision gives no clue To what is obiter and what is not : We all have found it d—d confusing, too. CI. And when at last we, too, shall pass away, Our wit and argument mere empty clay,— "The same old story, he worked hard, lived well, Died poor, the common epitaph," they'll say.
