Thou, that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well, Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell, Use mine so, too: I give thee leave. But crave For the luck's sake, it thus much favour have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought; Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have my title-leaf on posts, or walls, Or in cleft sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man, Who scarce can spell the hard names: whose knight less can. If, without these vile arts, it will not sell, Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill, well. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOT OUR GOOD LUCK by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE PRAIRIES by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT OVERLOOKING THE RIVER STOUR by THOMAS HARDY THE WORLD (1) by HENRY VAUGHAN AMERICA by JAMES MONROE WHITFIELD ON THE DEATH OF MR. GARRICK by JANE BOWDLER |