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...THE LOST MISTRESS by ROBERT BROWNING THE VICAR by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED A MAN BY THE NAME OF BOLUS by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY LITTLE JESUS by FRANCIS THOMPSON LILIES: 30. THE WHOLE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |