The Lawyer's Demurrer Argued.  
By the Loyal ADDRESSERS (the Gentlemen) of Grays-Inne, Against an ORDER made by the Bench of the Said Society.  
To the Tune of Packington's Pound, Or, The Round-Head Revived.  

I.  
DEar Friends, and Good People, with Gowns and with none,  
I'll tell you a Tale of a parcel of whigs,  
The Spawn of some Rebels in year Forty-One,  
Who like their damned Sires pursues their Intrigues:  
It occasions amazing,  
That some Members of Grays-Inne,  
Turn Tail to their King, from whom they'd their Raising:   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

II.  
By a musty old Custom, called Order of Pension,  
Giving Thanks to the King was judged an Affray;  
And strait they Decreed. 'twas Just to Disbench One,  
For showing Himself more Loyal than they:  
So thus the Dom. Com.  
Speak loudly for some,  
But propose the King's Interest, the word shall be Mum.   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever;  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

III.  
Men of the Sword they say make a Division,  
And militant Lawyers their Wisdoms disown,  
So that from the King to have had a Commission,  
Does not consist with a tattered old Gown:  
These men make pretence,  
Both to Law and to Sense,  
Yet say, the Law's broke, if you Fight for your Prince.   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

IV.  
From th' Ancients (they urge) this Order comes out,  
And therefore expect a ready Obedience,  
But how can that be, since their Mastership's dote,  
And they themselves have forgotten Allegiance:  
Therefore let's pray,  
Both by night and by Day,  
That they may Conform, and then we'll Obey.   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address unto your Lawgiver.   

V.  
But would it not move a Heart made of Flint,  
To think that a House must continue no longer,  
Since the grave Gubernators refused to consent,  
Except 'twere proposed by a Bar-Iron-monger;  
Or else by a Brewer,  
Who serves them with Beer,  
So small, that they're filled with Suspicion and Fear.   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

VI  
Now some of the younger disconsolate fry,  
As if they'd been still at— Quaeso Magister,  
Under such strange Apprehensions did lie,  
They desired to consult the Chappell-Minister.  
One of the young Men,  
Would not handle a Pen,  
For my Lord, and my Father won't take me again.   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

VII.  
The Number of those who refused to Subscribe,  
Are fitly compared to the days of poor Job,  
Few and Evil— and of a Satanical Tribe,  
Who Scandalise all the rest of the Robe;  
Those of the Bar-messe,  
Who cried— No Address,  
Found their Party of Faction were two to one Less;   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.   

VIII.  
Now you have heard of these Lawyer's Demurrer,  
And how their weak Arguments are overruled,  
Without all Dispute will think an Abhorrer,  
Of them and Petitions are loyally Bold.  
For such Impudence,  
Both at Bar and at Bench,  
Proceeds from those Men, who their King would Retrench:   

You Mortals of Law be confounded for ever,  
Who refuse an Address made to your Lawgiver.    

London, Printed for A.B. 1681.