| |
| HOW hard, when those who do not wish | |
| To lend, thus lose, their books, | |
| Are snared by anglers—folks that fish | |
| With literary hooks— | |
| Who call and take some favorite tome, | 5 |
| But never read it through; | |
| They thus complete their set at home | |
| By making one at you. | |
| |
| I, of my “Spenser” quite bereft, | |
| Last winter sore was shaken; | 10 |
| Of “Lamb” I ’ve but a quarter left, | |
| Nor could I save my “Bacon”; | |
| And then I saw my “Crabbe” at last, | |
| Like Hamlet, backward go, | |
| And, as the tide was ebbing fast, | 15 |
| Of course I lost my “Rowe.” | |
| |
| My “Mallet” served to knock me down, | |
| Which makes me thus a talker, | |
| And once, when I was out of town, | |
| My “Johnson” proved a “Walker.” | 20 |
| While studying o’er the fire one day | |
| My “Hobbes” amidst the smoke, | |
| They bore my “Colman” clean away, | |
| And carried off my “Coke.” | |
| |
| They picked my “Locke,” to me far more | 25 |
| Than Bramah’s patent worth, | |
| And now my losses I deplore, | |
| Without a “Home” on earth. | |
| If once a book you let them lift, | |
| Another they conceal, | 30 |
| For though I caught them stealing “Swift,” | |
| As swiftly went my “Steele.” | |
| |
| “Hope” is not now upon my shelf, | |
| Where late he stood elated, | |
| But, what is strange, my “Pope” himself | 35 |
| Is excommunicated. | |
| My little “Suckling” in the grave | |
| Is sunk to swell the ravage, | |
| And what was Crusoe’s fate to save, | |
| ’T was mine to lose—a “Savage.” | 40 |
| |
| Even “Glover’s” works I cannot put | |
| My frozen hands upon, | |
| Though ever since I lost my “Foote” | |
| My “Bunyan” has been gone. | |
| My “Hoyle” with “Cotton” went oppressed, | 45 |
| My “Taylor,” too, must fail, | |
| To save my “Goldsmith” from arrest, | |
| In vain I offered “Bayle.” | |
| |
| I “Prior” sought, but could not see | |
| The “Hood” so late in front, | 50 |
| And when I turned to hunt for “Lee,” | |
| O, where was my “Leigh Hunt”? | |
| I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, | |
| Yet could not “Tickell” touch, | |
| And then, alack! I missed my “Mickle,” | 55 |
| And surely mickle’s much. | |
| |
| ’T is quite enough my griefs to feed, | |
| My sorrows to excuse, | |
| To think I cannot read my “Reid,” | |
| Nor even use my “Hughes.” | 60 |
| My classics would not quiet lie,— | |
| A thing so fondly hoped; | |
| Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, | |
| My “Livy” has eloped. | |
| |
| My life is ebbing fast away; | 65 |
| I suffer from these shocks; | |
| And though I fixed a lock on “Gray,” | |
| There ’s gray upon my locks. | |
| I ’m far from “Young,” am growing pale, | |
| I see my “Butler” fly, | 70 |
| And when they ask about my ail, | |
| ’T is “Burton” I reply. | |
| |
| They still have made me slight returns, | |
| And thus my griefs divide; | |
| For O, they cured me of my “Burns,” | 75 |
| And eased my “Akenside.” | |
| But all I think I shall not say, | |
| Nor let my anger burn, | |
| For, as they never found me “Gay,” | |
| They have not left me “Sterne.” | 80 |
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