UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 MAY TREAT MORRISON 
 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 
 ALEXANDER F MORRISON
 

 
 The Book-Lover's Library.
 
 BOOK- VERSE 
 
 ANTHOLOGY OF POEMS OF BOOKS AND 
 
 BOOKMEN FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES 
 
 TO RECENT YEARS 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 W. ROBERTS 
 
 ' 
 
 Author of " The Bookhunter in London," " The 
 
 Earlier History of English Bookselling, " 
 
 " Printers' Marks," etc. 
 
 "And out of old bookes, in good faithe, 
 Cometh al this new science that men lere.' 
 
 CHAUCER, The Assembly ofFoules 
 
 LONDON 
 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW 
 1896
 
 Uo 
 HUMPHRY WARD. 
 
 13434O
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 \HE present volume is the pendant 
 to "Book-Song" edited by Mr. 
 Gleeson White and published in 
 the BOOK-LOVER'S LIBRARY series two 
 years ago. I am obliged to Mr. Gleeson 
 White for several examples which were 
 not sufficiently modern for his collection, 
 which is comprised almost exclusively of 
 verse written by living authors. The 
 arrangement of the poems in this collection 
 is chronological, but in instances where 
 an author has written two or more sets 
 of verses in praise of books, these have 
 been kept together. In several cases it 
 has not been possible to ascertain the 
 exact date at which a particular poem
 
 viii Preface. 
 
 was first written or printed. A few 
 miscellaneous pieces are included together 
 at the end of the volume. So many 
 various readings exist of several of the 
 poems quoted herein, that sometimes it 
 has been no easy matter to decide which 
 to select. Where, as in the case of 
 Chaucer, the quaint old spelling adds 
 a piquancy or expression to the lines, 
 the text has not been interfered with; 
 in a few cases, however, the orthography 
 has been slightly modernised. 
 
 W. R. 
 
 86, GROSVENOR ROAD, S.W. 
 Dec. 2i, 1895.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 J1HEN one comes to think of it, the 
 spectacle of a poet singing in praise 
 of books is a perfectly rational 
 sight; and even the somewhat laboured 
 commonplaces of the ordinary booklover, 
 whose manifestly genuine passion often 
 leads him too far astray from his native 
 element, are perfectly excusable. Poems 
 about books are excusable, not only because 
 they are true both in substance and in fact, 
 but because they have an antiquity which 
 casts a glamour of sanctity about the most 
 ordinary thing. Poets have sung the praises 
 of books for almost as long a period as they 
 have sung the deeds of heroes, the beauty 
 of women, and the charm of flowers; and 
 book-song as an institution is therefore by 
 ix b
 
 x Introduction. 
 
 no means the product of an age so barren 
 of poetic ideals as the present. Like every 
 other phase of literature, it has passed 
 through many crises, some of which have 
 been anything but favourable to it. 
 
 Both Catullus and Martial wrote much 
 poetry either in praise of or relating to 
 books and book-collectors. Catullus in his 
 charming little poem Ad Cornelium Nepotem, 
 which begins with " Quoi dono lepidum 
 novum libellum," was one of the first to 
 regard books as a subject for verse ; his own 
 volume he described as " fresh polised with 
 dry pumice stone " ; and in his song to 
 Camerius we get one of the earliest refer- 
 ences to the bookstaller : 
 
 " We pray, an' haply irk it not when prayed, 
 Show us where shadowed hidest thou in shade ! 
 Thee throughout Campus Minor sought we all, 
 Thee in the Circus, thee in each bookstall, 
 Thee in Almighty Jove's fane consecrate. 
 Nor less in promenade titled from The Great 
 (Friend !) I accosted each and every quean, 
 But mostly madams showing mien serene, 
 For thee I pestered all with many pleas 
 ' Give me Came'rius, wanton baggages ! ' " 
 
 (Sir Richard Burton's translation.']
 
 Introduction. xi 
 
 In another ode, this time addressed to 
 Calvus, who had presented him with the 
 works of some obscure author, Catullus 
 threatens him with a present of equal worth- 
 lessness, for which, 
 
 " Let but the morn appear, I'll run 
 To every bookstall in the town." 
 
 Horace's address to his book in his first 
 Epistle is so modern in spirit that it might 
 have been written only yesterday. Martial, 
 like so many other ancient authors, had a 
 very pleasant opinion of his own talents, and 
 of the value of his own books : 
 
 " Hie est quern legis, ille quern requiris, 
 Toto notus in orbe Martialis, 
 Argutis Epigrammaton libellis" 
 
 (Epigrammatum lib. i., 2.) 
 
 an opinion which he follows up with very 
 minute directions as to where his volume 
 may be purchased of Secundus the freed- 
 man of the learned Lucensis, behind the thres- 
 hold of Pax and the forum of Pallas. Martial 
 appears to have been troubled with a number 
 of friends who preferred borrowing the poet's 
 books to buying them. He has, for example,
 
 xii Introduction. 
 
 held up his friend Lupercus to the obloquy 
 of succeeding generations as one of these 
 mean-spirited creatures : 
 
 "Occurris quotiens, Luperce, nobis, 
 Vis mittam puerum, subinde dicis, 
 Cui tradas Epigrammaton libellum, 
 Lectum quern tibi protinus remittam ? 
 Non est, quod puerum, Luperce, vexes. 
 Longum est, si velit ad Pyrum venire, 
 Et scalis habito tribus, sed altis. 
 Quod quaeris, propius petas licebit. 
 Argi nempe soles subire letum , 
 Contra Caesaris est forum taberna, 
 Scriptis postibus hinc et inde totis, 
 Omnes ut cito perlegas poetas. 
 Illinc me pete ; nee roges Atrectum : 
 Hoc nomen dominus gerit tabernae ; 
 De primo dabit, alterove nido, 
 Rasum pumice, purpuraque cultum, 
 Denariis tibi quinque Martialem. 
 Tanti non es, ais? Sapis, Luperce." 
 
 (lib. i., 118.) 
 
 Mr. Putnam, in his interesting book on 
 Authors and their Public, has rendered these 
 verses into the following prose : " Every 
 time you meet me, Lupercus, you say some- 
 thing about sending a slave to my house to 
 borrow a volume of my Epigrams. Do not 
 give your slave the trouble. It is a long
 
 Introduction. xiii 
 
 distance to my part of the city, and my 
 rooms are high up on the third story. You 
 can get what you want close to your abode. 
 You often visit the quarter of the Argiletum. 
 You will find there, near the square of Caesar, 
 a shop the doors of which are covered on both 
 sides with the names of poets, so arranged 
 that you can at a glance run over the list. 
 Enter there and mention my name. Without 
 waiting to be asked twice, Atrectus, the 
 master of the shop, will take from his first 
 or second shelf a copy of Martial, well 
 finished, and beautifully bound with a purple 
 cover, and this he will give you in exchange 
 for five deniers. What ! Do you say it is 
 not worth the price ? O wise Lupercus ! " 
 
 A certain Fidentius appears also to have 
 aroused the poet's ire, inasmuch as the said 
 person, in reciting Martial's verses, always 
 spoke of them as his own. " If you are 
 willing to credit them to me," says Martial, 
 " I will send them to you gratis. If, however, 
 you wish to have them called your verses, 
 you had better buy them, when they will 
 no longer belong to me":
 
 xiv Introduction. 
 
 " Fama refert nostros te, Fidentine, libellos 
 Non aliter populo, quam recitare tuos. 
 Si mea vis dici ; gratis tibi carmina mittam. 
 Si dici tua vis ; haec erne, ne mea sint." 
 
 (lib. i., 3.) 
 
 Several other scraps of bookish verse may 
 be extracted from Martial's poems, in one of 
 which we learn that his books had already 
 reached Britain, a rumour which the poet 
 meets with the practical inquiry of cut bono ? 
 " My purse knows nothing of it " : 
 
 " Dicitur et nostros cantare Britannia versus. 
 Quid prodest? nescit sacculus ista meus." 
 
 (lib. xi., 30.) 
 
 Dr. Garnett has thus rendered another of 
 Martial's Epigrams : 
 
 " In spite of hints, in spite of looks, 
 Titus, I send thee not my books. 
 The reason, Titus, canst divine ? 
 I fear lest thou shouldst send me thine." 
 
 Another is thus rendered in a little-known 
 translation of the Latin poet's Epigrams, 
 published in London, 1695 :
 
 Introduction. xv 
 
 ' ' Whose chance it is to take in hand this book, 
 In the satiric mirror let him look." 
 
 On the reverse of the title-page of this 
 translation is written : 
 
 ' ' Whose chance it was to write this wretched book, 
 In the satiric mirror ne'er did look, 
 Wherein the witless author plain might see 
 Himself, from every spark of genius free." 
 
 Then, " To the Reader," still in manuscript : 
 " Reader, if thou hast griefs to make thee weep, 
 Take but this book, and read thyself to sleep." 
 
 As an illustration from Ovid, we may quote 
 the following exceedingly curious rendering 
 from Chaucer's Boke of the Duckesse, of 
 the Metamorphoses XL, on the subject of 
 " Reading in Bed " : 
 
 "So whanne I saught I might not slepe, 
 Now of late this other night 
 Upon my bed I sate upright, 
 And bade one reche me a boke, 
 A romauns, and he it me toke 
 To rede, and drive the nighte aweye : 
 For me thought it better pleye, 
 Than either atte chesse or tables. 
 And in this boke were written fables, 
 That clerkes hadde in olde time, 
 And other poets, put in rime 
 To rede, and for to be in minde."
 
 xvi Introduction. 
 
 Scarcely any important set of verses about 
 books appears to have been preserved to us 
 for seven or eight centuries after the com- 
 mencement of the Christian era. In the 
 eighth century Alcuin wrote an exceedingly 
 interesting set of " bookish " instructions 
 relative to the duties at his Scriptorium in 
 the Abbey of St. Martin at Tours. Perhaps 
 it would be more accurate to say that he 
 improved and preserved for us the set of 
 verses which, in some form or other, served 
 as a perpetual notice to the workers in the 
 Scriptoria. The verses run as follows ; they 
 are No. 67 of the Carmina: 
 
 " AD MUSEUM LIBROS SCRIBENTIUM. 
 " Hie sedeant sacras scribentes famina legis, 
 
 Nee non sanctorum dicta sacrata Patrum, 
 
 Haec interserere caveant sua frivola verbis, 
 Frivola nee propter erret et ipsa manus : 
 
 ' ' Correctosque sibi quaerant studiose libellos, 
 
 Tramite quo recto penna volantis eat, 
 Per cola distinguant proprios, et commata sensus, 
 Et punctos ponant ordine quosque suo. 
 
 " Ne vel falsa legal, taceat vel forte repente, 
 
 Ante pios fratres, lector in Ecclesia. 
 Est opus egregium sacros jam scribere libros, 
 Nee mercede sua scriptor et ipse caret.
 
 Introduction. xvii 
 
 " Fodere quam vites, melius est scribere libros, 
 
 Ille suo ventri serviet, iste animae. 
 Vel nova, vel vetera poterit proferre magister 
 
 Plurima, quisque legit dicta sacrata Patrum." 
 
 Prior to the establishment of this Scrip- 
 torium, Alcuin had the charge of a large 
 library formed by his friend Egbert of York, 
 and the rhymed list of the works to be found 
 there has been described as the oldest 
 Catalogue in the annals of literature. A 
 translation of it by D. McNicoll is given in 
 Timperley's Dictionary of Printers and Print- 
 ing, p. 45. 
 
 From the death of Alcuin to the introduc- 
 tion of printing by movable types is a space 
 of about six and a half centuries. That long 
 period was productive of very little in the way 
 of verse about books, certainly nothing that 
 could be ranked by the side of Alcuin's Car- 
 mina LXVIL, the Latin verses "Of Writing 
 in Gold " by Eraclitus (Theophili De Diversis 
 Artibus, iii., c. xcvi., p. 392), scarcely coming 
 within the scope of this little volume ; the 
 same may also be said of the well-known 
 reference in Dante's Dimna Commedia 
 (" Purgatory," c. xi., w. 74-90). The Speculum
 
 xviii Introduction, 
 
 Salutis, or Speculum Humana Salvationis, 
 which was popular as a manuscript at least 
 two centuries before the invention of typo- 
 graphy Heinecken describes an example 
 in the Vienna Imperial Library which he 
 attributes to the twelfth century is one of 
 the most interesting books of the Middle 
 Ages. The printed edition contains forty-five 
 chapters of Latin rhymes, including the follow- 
 ing four lines : 
 
 " Predictum prohemium huius libri de contentis 
 
 compilavi 
 Et propter pauperes predicatores hoc apponere 
 
 curavi. 
 
 Qui si forte nequierunt totum librum sibicomparare, 
 Possunt ex ipso prohemio si sciunt historias pre- 
 dicate." 
 
 Englished thus : 
 
 ' This preface of contents, stating what this book's 
 
 about, 
 For the sake of all poor preachers I have fairly 
 
 written out. 
 If the purchase of the book entire should be above 
 
 their reach, 
 This preface yet may serve them, if they know but 
 
 how to preach." 
 
 In an early thirteenth-century MS. Mir-
 
 Introduction. xix 
 
 acles of the Virgin, a collection of tales in 
 octosyllabic verse translated from the Latin 
 into French, we get an Epilogue which con- 
 tains not only the name of the author, but a 
 variety of other information of particular in- 
 terest in relation to the history of books : 
 
 ' ' Cest escrit fine deu merci 
 Selunc le liure mestre albri." 
 
 Somewhat later in date than the Miracles, 
 we get, in a metrical version of the Disciplina 
 Clericalis of Petrus Alfunsi, an exceedingly 
 interesting Prologue from the translator, in 
 which the following lines occur : 
 
 ' ' Pierres Anfors qui fist le livre, 
 Mostra qu'il deveit sens escrivre : 
 Quer Dieu tot avant mercia 
 Qant il son livre comenca, 
 Del bien et del entendement 
 Que il a don6 a sa gent. 
 Apres mostra dont tracereit, 
 Por quoi et coment le fereit : 
 Puis fist envers Deu s'oreison 
 Si corame esteit dreit et reison. 
 Quant il out fine 1 sa pre'iere 
 Si comen9a en tel maniere." J 
 
 1 It may be interesting to point out that the 
 author of the Disciplina Clericalis was a Jew who
 
 xx Introduction. 
 
 Some time ago the Athenazum made the 
 interesting announcement that M. Lognon, of 
 the Institut, had discovered in the manu- 
 scripts of the Bibliotheque Nationale, rebound 
 and classed under the erroneous title Roman 
 de Camel et de Hermondine, the lengthy 
 romance of Meliador, probably the last ro- 
 mance of the Round Table, written by Frois- 
 sart in 1383, and containing, besides some 
 thirty thousand lines of Froissart's muse, all 
 the lyrics of Wenceslas de Brabant : 
 
 ' ' Dedans ce roman sont encloses 
 Toutes les chansons que jadis 
 (Dont 1'ame soil en paradys) 
 Que fist le bon Due de Braibant, 
 Wincelaus, dont on parla tant." 
 
 Among the numerous MS. treasures of the 
 Hamilton Library, sold at Sotheby's in May 
 was one of the most beautiful of the 
 
 became converted to Christianity ; he was born in 
 1062 at Huesca, in the kingdom of Aragon. The 
 Disciplina belongs to the end of the eleventh or the 
 early part of the twelfth century ; but the translation 
 from the original Latin from which we quote belongs 
 to the thirteenth century. This translation was edited 
 and published for the first time in full by the Abbe" 
 Labouderie, Paris, 1824.
 
 Introduction. 
 
 xxi 
 
 many existing manuscripts of the Roman de 
 la Rose (i4th century). On the last leaf 
 the " Explicit li Rommans la Rose " is care- 
 fully scratched out, and the following verses, 
 probably by another hand than the artist of 
 the book, substituted : 
 
 " Cyest le Romant de la Rose, 
 Ou tout lart damours se repose. 
 La fleur des beaulx bien dire lose. 
 Qui bien y entend texte et glose. 
 Aucuns blasment quil nest en prose 
 Mes le moyne castel soppose. 
 Quatrement soil pour nulle chose 
 Car tout grant clerc qui se dispose. 
 Dentendre la Substance enclose. 
 Dedans. Et les vers pointe et pose 
 Sauoure et gouste en longue pose 
 Tout ainsi que lacteur propose. 
 En ryme et sens et se compose. 
 Est bien digne quon le despose. 
 Et que silence on luy Impose 
 Qui Rien y contredit ou glose." 
 
 Another French MS., a translation into 
 French of Dante's Paradiso, with illumina- 
 tions of extraordinary beauty to each chapter, 
 sold with the Hamilton Manuscripts, con- 
 tained the following lines :
 
 xxii Introduction. 
 
 " Ceste est la troisieme Partie 
 De la Comedie de Dantes 
 Qui de bon sens n'est departie 
 Ains par questions evidentes 
 Donne a cognoistre en ses beaux dits 
 Les joyes qui sont permanentes 
 Et se intitulle Paradis." 
 
 Among the French MSS., verse and prose, 
 at Stockholm there is a very important and 
 little-known one of Le Pelerinage de la Vie 
 Humaine ; in the colophon (or what we may 
 conveniently regard as such) we get the follow- 
 ing exceedingly minute information : 
 
 " Mil quatre cens quarante trois, 
 Le jour pre"ce"dent Saint-Franchois, 
 Fu chest livre chy par escrips, 
 Par le main dampt Zain de Zyanys 
 Moigne du Card, a Longviller, 
 En 1'ostel dampt Zain chevalier, 
 Prieur dudit lieu, pour le jour 
 A 1'escripvent doint Dieu s' amour." 
 
 Among the many interesting and valuable 
 items in the Hamilton Library was a vellum 
 MS. of Petrarch's Rime, written at Venice 
 about 1435, the owner of which at the be- 
 ginning of the sixteenth century was a certain 
 Tito Meratti, who presented it, Mr. Quaritch
 
 Introduction. xxiii 
 
 assumes, to the library of his order ; at the end 
 he has added a sonetto, which runs thus : 
 ' ' Cassinense decan Benedettino 
 
 lo professo di San Giorgio Maggiore 
 
 Tita Meratti titolar lettore 
 
 D'onori astemio, in borsa capucino 
 
 Vn codice che tengo del divino 
 Petrarca degno d'ogni gran signore 
 A questa libreria mi fo 1'honore 
 
 Di dare avanti che lo dia il destine 
 
 Deh non cantate in simoniaco tuono 
 Ne cangiate il sonetto in rea canzone 
 Lo sproprio feci e di Simon non sono. 
 
 Constantin Roma die per diuozione 
 lo questi versi, accio sia certo il dono, 
 "Scrivo la carta del donazione." 
 
 With just one more illustration from our 
 excursions among books written before the 
 introduction of printing we will conclude 
 this portion of our subject. Our extract 
 is from Li Rmimans de Cleomades, of 
 which the original MS. is now in the Biblio- 
 theque de 1'Arsenal, Paris. It was written 
 in the thirteenth century by a celebrated 
 rhymer of the period who styled himself 
 Adenes li Roi, and who also composed a still 
 more popular story in verse, Les Enfances 
 Ogier. The Cleomades was edited by Andre
 
 xxiv Introduction. 
 
 Van Hasselt, and published in two volumes 
 at Brussels, in 1865-6. The following ex- 
 ceedingly quaint and interesting lines occur 
 at the commencement of the printed edition : 
 
 ' ' En non de Dieu le cr^atour 
 Qui nous doinst par sa grant dolour, 
 Que les ames li puissons rendre, 
 Vorrai a rimoiier entendre, 
 je qui fis d'Ogier le Danois 
 Et de Bertram qui fu ou bois, 
 Et de Buevon de Commarchis, 
 Ai un autre livre rempris 
 Moult merveilleus et moult divers." 
 
 And it closes with the following equally 
 interesting lines : 
 
 " Diex gart chascun, lui et les siens, 
 Et lor mire trestous les biens 
 Que il ont moi et autrui fais, 
 Et lor pardoinst tous leur mesfais, 
 Et nous doinst, par son dous plaisir, 
 K'a bonne fin puissons venir ! 
 Et Diex le nous otroit ainsi ! 
 C'est la fin de ce livre ici." 
 
 In spite of the complete revolution, com- 
 mercially and intellectually, which the in- 
 vention of printing effected a contingency 
 perhaps scarcely dreamed of by the inventors
 
 Introduction. xxv 
 
 it is curious to note how very intimately 
 the written MS. and the printed book overlap 
 one another. In no feature was this simi- 
 larity more pronounced than in respect to the 
 little set of verses with which the scribe sent 
 forth his book on the stormy sea of existence. 
 The scribe's functions were nearly invariably 
 analogous to those of the printer, and the 
 labour of producing any particular book gave 
 him the prescriptive right to act the part 
 of godfather. The affectionate leave-taking 
 which we see manifested so frequently 
 in manuscripts, as well as in the printed 
 book, is thoroughly genuine. "I am ill at 
 these numbers," many of our "poets" im- 
 ply, but what they lacked in the " divine 
 afflatus " they more than compensated for by 
 their vigour. The valedictory odes of the 
 early printers, or of the authors who, in pro- 
 prid persona, committed their own works to 
 the press, often contain, as did those of the 
 scribes, most important and interesting in- 
 formation relative to the mechanical produc- 
 tion of the book. The famous verses which 
 occur at the end of so many of the books 
 
 c
 
 xxvi Introduction. 
 
 printed by Sweynheim and Pannartz are 
 well known to bibliographers, and may 
 serve as an illustration of our meaning. 
 The following example, which appears in 
 Henley's translation of Montfau?on's Diarium 
 Italicum, is one of the best with which we 
 are acquainted : 
 
 " Whoe'er you be who on these pages look, 
 Read if you'd know what artists wrought the book. 
 Rough German names perhaps may cause your 
 
 smiles, 
 
 But these will grow familiar with their toils ; 
 Arnold Pannartz and Conrade Sweynheym, 
 By printing it at Rome first gained esteem, 
 While Peter with his brother Francis joyned 
 To furnish house-room for the work designed." 
 
 The colophon of the Biblia Pauperum, 
 printed in German by Albrecht Pfister either 
 in 1462 or 1463, is one of extreme interest. 
 Of this work only two copies have been dis- 
 covered up to the present one is in the 
 Althorp Library, now the property of Mrs. 
 John Rylands, and the second is in the 
 National Library at Paris. It contains, we 
 may mention, the histories of Joseph, Daniel, 
 Judith, and Esther ; and the following trans-
 
 Introduction. xxvii 
 
 lation was the work of Dibdin's friend, 
 R. W. Wade : 
 
 " Each man with eagerness desires 
 To learn, and to be wise aspires. 
 But books and masters make us so ; 
 And all men cannot Latin know. 
 Thereon I have for sometimes thought, 
 And HISTORIES FOUR together brought : 
 JOSEPH and DANIEL and JUDITH 
 With good intent ; ESTHER therewith. 
 To these did God protection give, 
 As now to all who godly live. 
 If by it we our lives amend, 
 This little book hath gained its end. 
 Which certainly in Bamberg town 
 By ALBERT PFISTER'S press was done, 
 In fourteen hundred sixty two, 
 As men now reckon ; that is true, 
 Soon after good St. Walburgh's day, 
 Whom to procure for us, we pray, 
 Peace and eternal life to live ; 
 The which to all of us God give. Amen." 
 
 The colophon of the first book printed in 
 Paris, the Epistola of Gasparin of Bergamo, 
 1470, possesses a more than ordinary interest, 
 and leaves scarcely anything to be explained 
 as regards the material production of the 
 book :
 
 xxviii Introduction. 
 
 " Ut sol lumen ! sic doctrinam fundis in orbem, 
 
 Musarum nutrix, regia Parisius ; 
 Hinc prope divinam, tu, quam Germania novit, 
 
 Artem scribendi ! suscipe promerita ; 
 Primes ecce libros ! quos haec industria finxit 
 
 Francorum in terris, aedibus atque tuis ; 
 Michael, Udalricus, Martinusque magistri 
 
 Hos impresserunt ac facient alios." 
 
 Lines which have been thus rendered into 
 English : 
 
 ' ' As the sun sheds light, so dost thou pour learning 
 
 on the world, 
 
 Nurse of the Muses, royal Paris ! 
 Take therefore Thou, deserving, the nigh-divine 
 
 Art which Germany learned. 
 Lo here ! the first books which that craft has 
 
 wrought 
 
 In the lands of the Franks, and in thy mansions. 
 The masters Michael, Ulric, and Martin 
 
 Have printed these books, and will also print 
 others." 
 
 The colophon of St. Augustine's De Civitate 
 Dei, printed in 1470 by Vindelin de Spira 
 at Venice, gives a very curious history of 
 typography at Venice ; it may be mentioned 
 that the work was commenced by John de 
 Spira, who died, however, before it was 
 completed :-
 
 Introduction. xxix 
 
 ' ' Qui docuit Venetos exscribi posse Joannes 
 Mense fere trino centena volumina Plini 
 Et totidem magni Ciceronis Spira libellos : 
 Ceperat Aureli : subita sed morte perentus 
 Non potuit ceptum Venetis finire volumen 
 Vindelinus adest ejusdem frater : et arte 
 Non minor : hadriacaq ; morabitur urbe." 
 
 Several of the colophons of John de Spira 
 are of a poetical character, as witness that 
 affixed to the copy of Cicero's Epistola Ad 
 Familiares, 1469. But perhaps quite the 
 most interesting bit of verse of this printer 
 occurs in the colophon of the editio princeps 
 of Pliny's Histories Naturalis, LibriXXXVIL, 
 1469. The colophon alludes to the celerity 
 with which this book was printed off namely, 
 three months a rapidity which one can quite 
 believe, as the text is full of typographical 
 errors : 
 
 ' ' Quern modo tarn rarum cupiens vix lector haberet : 
 Quiq ; etiam fractus pene legendus eram : 
 
 Restituit Venetis me nuper Spira Joannes : 
 Exscripsitq libros ere notante meos. 
 
 Fessamanus qoundam moneo : calamusq quiescat. 
 Namq : labor studio cessit et ingenio." 
 
 The edition of Dante's Divina Commedia
 
 xxx Introduction. 
 
 printed by Numeister in 1472 also contains a 
 curious and interesting set of verses, which 
 inform us : 
 
 " Nel mille quatro cento septe et due, 
 Nel quarto mese ; adi cinque et sei 
 Questa opera gentile impressa fue ; 
 
 ' ' lo maestro Johanni Numeister opera dei 
 Alia decta impressione, et meco fue, 
 Elfulginato, Evangelista mei." 
 
 Or in English thus by H. Noel Humphreys: 
 
 "In one thousand four hundred and seventy two, 
 The fourth month of the year, on the days six and 
 
 five 
 
 This good work was imprinted by artifice new ; 
 I John Numeister did then contrive 
 The aforesaid impression, and with me, in fine, 
 Was the worthy Folignian, evangelist mine." 
 
 At the end of the first edition of St. Augus- 
 tine's Liber de salute sive de aspiratione animce 
 ad Deum, 1471, which is also the first book 
 printed at Treviso, we get, in capital letters, 
 the following epigram in praise of the printer 
 (Gerardus de Flandria) : 
 
 ' ' Gloria debetur Gerardo maxima lisas 
 
 Quern genuit campis Flandria picta suis.
 
 Introduction. xxxi 
 
 Hie Tarvisina nam primus coepit in urbe 
 
 Artifici raros acre notare libros. 
 Quoque magis faveant excelsi numina regis 
 
 Aurelii sacrum nunc manuale dedit." 
 
 Another particularly interesting set of verses 
 occurs in the colophon of Justinian's Digestum 
 Infortiatum (cum glossa), Rome, 1475 : 
 
 ' ' Idibus exactum est opus hoc aprilibus urbe 
 Roma, quo princeps tempore Sixtus erat. 
 
 Christus olympiadas demptis iam quinq : trecentas 
 Viderat aetherno de genitore satus 
 Voluebas dubio mendosa volumina textu, 
 Plurimaque in toto codice menda fuit 
 
 Nunc impressa patent civilia candide jura 
 Lector, ut auctores compos uere sui. 
 Quare ne dubitae, parvo tibi pendere magnse 
 Empta fuit pretio charta minori nihil." 
 
 As a contrast, and perhaps a relief, to the 
 foregoing Latin l examples, we may quote one 
 
 1 Those who care to pursue the subject of poems 
 about books in Latin may be glad of a reference 
 to the Selecta Poemata (Paris, 1683), of Pierre 
 Petit, where there are two highly interesting and 
 well-sustained examples ; the longer poem is entitled 
 " In Bibliothecam," but the more original and 
 noteworthy is that entitled " In Bibliotaphium. " 
 A poem of thirty-seven lines (in Latin), "AD C. M.
 
 xxxii Introduction. 
 
 of the best of the early Spanish specimens 
 with which we are acquainted. It comes 
 from the Sacramental of Arcediano de 
 Valderas, Seville, 1476: 
 
 " Et sic est finis 
 Deo gracias 
 Este libro asi ordenado 
 De dotrina tan perfecta 
 Todo por su via rrecta 
 Dios bendicto es acabado 
 Quien desea ser colocado 
 En la gloria eternal 
 E libre de todo mal 
 Sea por el ensenado." 
 
 The invention of printing had the very 
 natural effect of multiplying the number of 
 books, and it is not surprising that those 
 who were familiar with the old and slow 
 process of book-production took fright at the 
 
 CRACHERODE DE IIS QU^E SUNT NECESSARIA AD 
 
 BIBLIOTHECAM EXQUisiTiOREM," is printed in 
 Clarke's Repertorium Bibliographicum, and also in 
 Edwards's Memoirs of Libraries ; it expresses the esti- 
 mation in which Mr. Cracherode's splendid collection 
 was held in the owner's lifetime, and characterises 
 many of its gems. This collection now forms part 
 of the British Museum.
 
 Introduction. xxxiii 
 
 productiveness of the printing-press. In the 
 latter part of the fifteenth century Jehan 
 Molinet gave expression to his feelings, in 
 reference to the multitude ot books, in the 
 following lines : 
 
 " J'ai vu grand multitude 
 De livres imprimez, 
 Pour tirer en estude 
 Povres mal argentes. 
 Par ces novelles modes 
 Aura maint escollier, 
 Decrets, Bibles, et Codes 
 San grand argent bailler." 
 
 These lines have been thus Englished : 
 
 " I've seen a mighty throng 
 Of printed books and long, 
 To draw to studious ways 
 The poor men of our days ; 
 By which new-fangled practice 
 We soon shall see the fact is, 
 Our streets will swarm with scholars 
 Without clean shirts or collars ; 
 With Bibles, books, and codices, 
 As cheap as tapes for bodices." 
 
 Doubtless it was the same Molinet who- 
 wrote a paraphrase in prose of the Roman de
 
 xxxiv Introduction. 
 
 la Rose, which appeared at Lyons, 1503, and 
 had the following lines : 
 
 " Cest le romant de la rose 
 Moralise cler et net 
 Traslate de rime en prose 
 Par vostre huble Molinet.' 
 
 With two more examples our quotations 
 from the incunabula of Continental workshops 
 may cease. Each of these examples is curi- 
 ous and interesting in its way. The earlier 
 example is from the colophon of Oliver de la 
 Marche's Chevalier Delibere, 1483, and one 
 of the two verses runs as follows : 
 
 " Get traittie fut parfait 1'an mil 
 Quatre cens quatre vings et trois 
 Ainsi que sur la fin d'avril 
 Que 1'yver est en son exil, 
 Et que 1'este" fait ses explois. 
 Au bien soit pris en tout endrois 
 De ceulx a qui il est offert 
 Par celui qui Tant a souffert, 
 La Marche." 
 
 The second example occurs in Le Livre de 
 Matheolus, printed by Antoine V6rard, Paris, 
 1492. It runs thus :
 
 Introduction. xxxv 
 
 1 ' Le liure de matheolus 
 Qui nous monstre sans varier 
 Les biens et aussy les vertus 
 Qui vieignent pour soy inarier 
 Et a tous faictz considerer 
 II dit que lomme n'est pas saige 
 Sy se tourne remarier 
 Quant prins a este au passaige." 
 
 The books produced by the English printers 
 before the end of the fifteenth century are 
 much less prolific in the matter of bookish 
 verse than the majority of Continental centres. 
 But the few examples available are none the 
 less interesting. Several of Wynkyn de 
 Worde's books have the poetical colophons 
 so common at the time on the Continent. 
 That, for example, found in Hilton's Scale of 
 Perfection, 1494, is in many respects of great 
 interest and importance : 
 
 ' ' Infynite laud with thankynges many folde 
 
 I yelde to God me socouryng with his grace 
 This boke to finyshe whiche that ye beholde, 
 Scale of Perfeccion calde in every place. 
 
 " Whereof the auctor Walter Hilton was 
 
 And Wynkyn de Worde this hath sett in print 
 In William Caxstons hows so fyll the case. 
 God rest his soule. In joy ther mot it stynt."
 
 xxxvi Introduction. 
 
 Of almost equal interest are the following 
 lines from the Polychronicon, 1495, from 
 which, inter alia, will be gathered that one 
 Roger Thorney was probably a friend and 
 supporter of Caxton, as he certainly was of 
 Wynkyn de Worde : 
 
 " This boke of Policronicon 
 Whiche Roger Thorney mercer hath exhorted 
 Wynken de Worde of vertuous entent 
 Well to correcte, and gretely hym comforted, 
 This specyal boke to make and sette in prente." 
 
 Richard Pynson, like de Worde, had a 
 weakness for poetical colophons, and one of 
 the more interesting examples occurs in his 
 edition of The Myrrour of GoodManers, 1 526, 
 translated into " englyeshe by Alexander 
 Bercley preste," which contains two stanzas 
 in which the subject-matter of " this playne 
 lytell treatyse " is summarised. Robert 
 Copland was almost a genius at poetical 
 colophons, and he certainly was the first 
 Englishman who elevated the art of book- 
 song out of the commonplace. We give 
 several specimens of his work in the body 
 of this little book.
 
 Introduction. xxxvii 
 
 Occasionally one meets with the record of 
 a legacy of books done, not in the cold and 
 circumstantial language of the man of law, 
 but in the spirit and form of verse, as in the 
 following lines of Lamoral Prince de Ligne, 
 written in 1609 : 
 
 " La comtesse Ysabeau d'Hoschrate et Culenbourg 
 Tint ce chef-d'oeuvre ancien entre son heritage : 
 Depuis, sa chere niepce, Anne de Rennenbourg, 
 Succ^dant a ces biens, cut ce livre en partage. 
 
 " De qui ses quatre sceurs apres le posse'derent, 
 Dont ma mere eut un quart qu'elle me transporta : 
 Les trois en ma faveur leur part me delaisserent. 
 
 ' ' Or, maintenant j'ordonne et commande a mon fils 
 De le guarder soigneux, comme une oeuvre tres- 
 
 digne, 
 
 Et qu'a mes successeurs toujours de pere et fils, 
 Ce livre soil au chef de ma maison de Ligne." 
 
 Occasionally we get a poetical inscription 
 which lays the author entirely open to uncom- 
 plimentary retort of the wit or the Philistine. 
 One of the earliest examples which come in 
 this category is to be found in Edmund 
 Prestwich's Hippolitus, Translated out of 
 Seneca, etc., 1651, in which, apologising for
 
 xxxviii Introduction. 
 
 the absence of < a frontispiece, the author 
 observes : 
 
 " I know thou'lt aske why I no Front do weare 
 To take the distant eye. Not I, I sweare. 
 To give an invitation, and no meate, 
 Would not be thought a courtesie, but cheate. 
 Besides (if mine owne feares aright divine), 
 Thou'lt find but too much Front in every line." 
 
 W. H. Ireland, the Shakespeare forger, 
 gave himself away, so to speak, in a very 
 similar manner, when he printed the following 
 address " To His Book" (Rhapsodies} : 
 
 " As on thy title-page, poor little book, 
 Full oft I cast a sad and pensive look, 
 
 I shake my head and pity thee. 
 For I, alas ! no brazen front possess, 
 Nor do I ev'ry potent art profess, 
 
 To send thee forth from censure free." 
 
 Upon these lines Person wrote : " Though I 
 cannot help looking upon him as too modest 
 in the fourth verse, he certainly underrates 
 the amount and extent of possessions. He 
 is by no means poor in his own brass." 
 
 A glance through the present volume, which
 
 Introduction. xxxix 
 
 is the result of several years' gleaning, will, 
 it is believed, introduce for the first time to 
 many a very curious and interesting body of 
 verse. This collection does not by any means 
 pretend to be complete, but it may fairly 
 claim to be representative both as to moods 
 and as to time. In many instances the 
 bookish verses herein quoted are absolutely 
 the only interesting features in the particular 
 books from which they have been extracted ; 
 but in not a few others the books themselves 
 are both exceedingly rare and of great literary 
 interest. 
 
 The feverish heat at which we live is little 
 conducive to the study of the " stretched 
 metre " of antique songs, buried away in 
 the dusty volumes of still dustier recesses of 
 rarely visited libraries. But there are times 
 in our lives when the study of old books be- 
 comes a positive relief from the noisy clamour 
 of new publications ; and . it is then that we 
 begin to realise how vast and how varied is 
 our literary inheritance. 
 
 The pleasure which the present writer has 
 derived from his prolonged excursion into.
 
 xl Introduction. 
 
 the regions of old books may be taken as 
 a criterion of the satisfaction which others 
 may secure from similar journeyings. The 
 present excursion may be very fittingly con- 
 cluded with the following lines, which have 
 been attributed to Sir Thomas More : 
 
 ' ' As often as I consydre these old noble clerkes 
 Poetis, Oratours, and Phylosophers sectes thre 
 Howe wonderfull they were, in all theyr werkes 
 Howe eloquent, how inuentyue in eury degre 
 Halfe amased I am, and as a deed tre 
 Stonde sty 11, ouer rude for to brynge forth 
 Any fruyte or sentence, that is ought worth." 
 
 %* A note will be found at the end of the 
 volume concerning each of the sets of verses 
 marked with an asterisk.
 
 A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY PROEM.* 
 
 [The following verses occur at the head of a manuscript 
 copy of Glanville on the Properties of Things, 
 and they evidently indicate the feelings which a 
 scribe must have experienced when he sat down to 
 copy or illuminate a manuscript of three hundred 
 folio leaves. The spelling is modernised, since 
 there are frequent variants.] 
 
 In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. Amen. 
 Assit principio Sancta Maria meo. 
 
 fy /'""^ROSS was made all of red 
 
 V_^ In the beginning of my book, 
 That is called God me speed 
 In the first lesson that I took. 
 
 Then I learned & and IS 
 And other letters by their names, 
 But always God speed me, 
 That is needful in all games. 
 
 If I played in fields or in meads 
 Other still, other with noise, 
 I pray help in all my deeds 
 Of Him that died upon the cross. 
 
 I
 
 Book- Verse. 
 
 Now divers plays in His name 
 I shall let pass forth and fare, 
 And adventure to play a long game 
 Also, and X shaft spare. 
 
 s, -meads* arid fields, 
 J^ace'thaj; I .have played in, 
 And in His name that all things wields 
 This game now I shall begin. 
 
 And pray help, counsel, and read 
 To me that He will send, 
 And this game rule and lead 
 And bring it to a good end. 
 
 Qiii habet attres audiendi audiat. 
 
 CHAUCER TO HIS SCRIVENER. 
 
 ADAM SCRIVENER, if ever it thee befall 
 Boece or Troilus for to write new, 
 Under thy long locks thou may'st have the scall, 
 But after my making thou write more true, 
 So oft aday I mote thy work renew, 
 It to correct and eke to rub and scrape, 
 And all is through thy negligence and rape.
 
 A CANTERBURY PILGRIM. 
 
 A CLERK ther was of Oxenford also, 
 That unto logik hadde longe i-go. 
 Al so lene was his hors as is a rake, 
 And he was not right fat, I undertake ; 
 But lokede holwe, and thereto soburly. 
 Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy, 
 For he hadde nought geten him yit a benefice, 
 Ne was not worthy to have an office. 
 For him was lever have at his beddes heed 
 Twenty bookes, clothed in blak and reed, 
 Of Aristotil, and of his philosophic, 
 Then robus riche, or fithul, or sawtrie. 
 But al though he were a philosophre, 
 Yet hadde he but litul gold in cofre ; 
 But al that he might of his frendes hente, 
 On bookes and his lernyng, he it spente, 
 And busily gan for the soules pray 
 Of hem that gaf him wherwith to scolay. 
 Of studie tooke he most cure and heede. 
 Not oo word spak he more than was neede ; 
 Al that he spak it was of heye prudence, 
 And schort and quyk, and ful of gret sentence. 
 Sownynge in moral manere was his speche, 
 And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. 
 G. CHAUCER, Prologue to the Canterbury Tales.
 
 Book- Verse. 
 
 TO HIS BOOK.' 
 
 Verba tfislatoris ad librum suuin. 
 
 GO, litel boke, and put the in grace 
 Of him that is most of excellence, 
 And be not hardy to appere in no place 
 Withoute support of his magnificence ; 
 And whoso euere finde in the offence, 
 Be not to bolde for noo presumpsioun ; 
 Thi selfe enarme ay in pacience, 
 And the submitte to hir correcyoun. 
 
 And though thou art enlimyned w l no floures 
 Of rothorik, but with white and blak, 
 Therefore thou most abide alle shoures 
 Of hem that list sette on the tak ; 
 And whan thou art most likly go to wrak 
 Ayenst hem thin errour not defende, 
 But humbely w* drawe an goo a bak, 
 Requering hem alle yat is mys to amende. 
 
 Pees makith plente ~\ 
 
 Plente makith pride I 
 
 Pride makith plee V And therefore 
 
 Plee makith pouert I 
 
 Pouert makith pees j 
 
 Grace growith aftir gounauce. 
 J. LYDGATE, The Boke of the Siege of Troye (MS.). 
 
 r
 
 TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 GOO, litel book, and mekely me excuse, 
 To alle thoo that shal the seen or rede. 
 Yf ony man thy Rudnesse lyst accuse, 
 Make no diffence, but with lowly hede 
 Pray hym refourme wheer as he seth nede : 
 To that entent I do the forth directe, 
 Wher thou fayllest that men shal the correcte. 
 LYDGATE AND BURGH, Secrees of old Philisoffres. 
 
 r 
 
 CHAUCER'S A. B. C.* 
 
 A ND touchynge the translacioun 
 \. Off thys noble Orysoun 
 Whylom yiff I shall not feyne 
 The noble poete of Breteyne, 
 My mayster Chaucer in hys tyme 
 Affter the ffrenche he dyde yt ryme 
 Word by word, as in substaunce 
 Ryght as yt ys ymad in fraunce, 
 Ful devoutly in sentence, 
 In worshepe and in reuerence 
 Off that noble hevenly quene, 
 Bothe moder and a mayde clene ; 
 And sythe he dyde yt vndertake 
 For to translate yt ffor hyr sake,
 
 Book- Verse. 
 
 I pray thys that ys the beste, 
 For to brynge hys soule at reste, 
 That he may thorgh thys prayere 
 Aboue the starrys bryght and c [lere ?] 
 Off hyr mercy and hyr grace 
 .Apere afforn hyr songs ff[ace] 
 Wyth seyntys euere for a memorye 
 Eternally to regene in glorye ; 
 And ffor memorye off that poete 
 Wyth al hys rethorykes swete, 
 That was the ffyrste in any age 
 That amendede our langage, 
 Therefore as I am bounde off dette 
 In thys book I wyl hym sette, 
 And ympen this Orysoun 
 Affter hys translacioun, 
 My purpos to determyne 
 That yt shall enlwmyne 
 Thys lytyl book rud off makyng 
 Wyth som clause off hys wrytyng ; 
 And as he made thys Orysoun 
 Off fill devout entencioun 
 And by maner off a prayere, 
 Ryht so I wyl yt settyn here, 
 That men may knowe and pleynly se 
 Off Our lady the a. b. c. 
 
 AND of the tyme playnly and of the date 
 Whan I be gan thys book to translate, 
 Yt was a thovsand by computacion 
 Affter crystys incarnacion,
 
 A Bookworm. 7 
 
 Four hundryd ouer nouther fer nere 
 
 The surples ouer syxe and twenty yere, 
 
 My lord [Salisbury] that tyme beyng at parys. 
 
 JOHN LYDGATE, translation of Les Trois Pelerinages. 
 
 A BOOKWORM.* 
 
 *~pIIAT in this ship the chiefe place I governe, 
 -L By this wide sea with foolis wandering, 
 The cause is plaine and easy to discerne ; 
 Still am I busy bookes assemblinge, 
 For to have plenty it is a pleasant thing, 
 In my conceyt, to have them ay in hand, 
 But what they meane do I not understande. 
 
 But yet I have them in great reverence 
 
 And honour saving them from filth and ordure, 
 
 By often brusshing and much diligence, 
 
 Full goodly bounde in pleasant coverture 
 
 Of damas, satin, or els of velvet pure : 
 
 I keepe them sure, fearing least they should be lost, 
 
 For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast. 
 
 But if it fortune that any learned man 
 
 Within my house fall to disputation, 
 
 I drawe the curtaynes to shewe my bokes then, 
 
 That they of my cunning should make probati on 
 
 I love not to fall in altercation : 
 
 And while the comon, my bookes I turne and winde 
 
 For all is in them, and no thing in my minde.
 
 8 Book- Verse. 
 
 Tholomeus the riche caused, lone agone, 
 
 Over all the worlde good bookes to be sought ; 
 
 Done was his commandment anon. 
 
 These books he had and in his study brought 
 
 Which passed all earthly treasure as he thought, 
 
 But nevertheless he did him not apply 
 
 Unto their doctrine, but lived unhappily. 
 
 Lo in likewise of bookes I have store, 
 But few I reade, and fewer understand ; 
 I folowe not their doctrine, nor their lore, 
 It is enough to beare a booke in hande ; 
 It were too much to be in such a lande, 
 For to be bounde to loke within the boke ; 
 I am content on the fayre coveryng to looke. 
 
 ***** 
 Each is not lettred that nowe is made a lorde, 
 Nor eche a clerke that heth a benefice ; 
 They are not all lawyers that plees do recorde, 
 All that are promoted are not fully wise ; 
 On such chance now fortune throwes her dice, 
 That though one knowe but the yrish game 
 Yet would he have a gentleman's name. 
 
 So in likewise, I am in such a case, 
 
 Though I nought can, I would be called wise ; 
 
 Also I may set another in my place 
 
 Which may for me my bookes exercise ; 
 
 Or els I will ensue the common guise, 
 
 And say concede to every argument, 
 
 Lest by much speech my Latin should be spent.
 
 Of a New Married Student. g 
 
 THE ENVOY OF ALEXANDER BARCLAY. 
 
 Say worthy doctors and Clerkes curious : 
 What moveth you of Bokes to have such a number, 
 Syn divers doctrines through way contrarious 
 Doth mans minde distract and sore encomber ; 
 Alas, blind men awake, out of your slomber, 
 And if ye will needs your books multiply 
 With diligence endeavour you some to occupy. 
 
 SEBASTIAN BRANT, Shyp of Folys of the Worlde, 
 1509 (translated by Alexander Barclay). 
 
 r 
 
 OF A NEW MARRIED STUDENT THAT 
 PLAYED FAST AND LOOSE. 
 
 [Warton thinks it probable that Sir Thomas More 
 " one of the best jokers of the age "may have 
 written these lines (usually attributed to Henry 
 Howard, Earl of Surrey), which he considers the 
 first pointed epigram in our language.] 
 
 A STUDENT, at his book so placed 
 That wealth he might have won, 
 From book to wife did flit in haste, 
 
 From wealth to woe to run. 
 Now, who hath played a feater cast, 
 
 Since juggling first begun ? 
 In knitting of himself so fast, 
 Himself he hath iindone. 
 
 r
 
 IO Book-Verse. 
 
 THE BOOK'S OBJECT. 
 
 THE kyndly entente of every gentylman 
 Is the furtheraunce of all gentylnesse, 
 And to procure in all that ever he can 
 For to renewe all noble worthynesse ; 
 This dayly is sene at our eye expresse 
 Of noble men that do endyte and rede 
 In bokes olde, theyr worthy myndes to fede. 
 
 CHRISTINE OF PISA, The Boke of the Cyte of Laefyes, 
 1521 (translated by Brian Anslay, or Annesley). 
 
 r 
 
 THE PROLOGUE OF ROBERT COPLANDE. 
 
 r I ^HE godly vse of prudent wytted men 
 -I- Cannot absteyne theyr auncyent exercyse : 
 ecorde of late how besily with his pen 
 The translator of the sayd treatyse 
 Hath him indeured, in most goodly wise 
 Bokes to translate, in volumes large and fayre, 
 From French in prose, of goostly examplayre. 
 
 As is thefioure of goddes commaundementes, 
 
 A treatyse also called hucydary, 
 
 With two other of the seuen sacramentes, 
 
 One of cristen men the ordinary, 
 
 The seconde the craft to lyne well and to dye, 
 
 With dyuers other to mannes lyfe profytable, 
 
 A vertuose vse and ryght commendable.
 
 Description of a Book. 1 1 
 
 And now this Boke of Christes Passyon, 
 The which before in Language was to rude, 
 Seyng the matter to be of grete Compassyon, 
 Hath besyed hym that Vyce for to exclude 
 In Englysshe clere, with grete solycitude, 
 Out of Frensshe at Wynkyn de Wordes In- 
 
 staunce, 
 Dayly descrying of Vertues the Fortheraunce. 
 
 R. COPLAND, Here ensueth a goosfely Treaty se of the 
 Passyon of our Lorde Jesu Chryst, etc. (printed 
 by W. de Worde, in Fleet Street, 1521). 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF A BOOK. 
 
 WITH that of the boke losende were the 
 claspes 
 
 The margent was illumynid all with golden raills 
 And byse, enpictured with gressoppes and waspis, 
 With butterflyis and freshe pecocke taylis, 
 Englorid with flowris and slymy snaylis ; 
 Enuyuid pictures well touchid and quikly ; 
 It wolde haue made a man hole that had he ryght 
 
 sickly 
 
 To beholde how it was garnyschyd and bounde, 
 Encouerde ouer with gold of tissew fyne ; 
 The claspis and bullyons were worth a thousande 
 
 pounde ;
 
 1 2 Book- Verse. 
 
 With belassis and carbuncles the borders did 
 
 shyne ; 
 
 With aurum mosaicum every other lyne 
 Was wrytin. 
 
 JOHN SKELTON, A Replycacion agaynst 
 certayne yong Sealers, etc. 
 
 ROBERT COPLANDE, BOKE PRINTER 
 TO NEW FANGLERS. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 NEWES, newes, newes, have ye ony newes ? 
 Myne eres ake to here you call and crye. 
 Ben bokes made with whystelynge and whewes ? 
 Ben there not yet ynow to your fantasye ? 
 In fayth nay I trow, and yet have ye dayly 
 Of maters sadde, and eke of apes and oules ; 
 But yet for your pleasure thus moche do wyll I, 
 As to lette you here the parlament of foules. 
 Chaucer is deed the which this pamphlete wrate, 
 So ben his heyres in all such besynesse, 
 And gone is also the famous clarke Lydgate, 
 And so is yonge Hawes. God theyr soules 
 
 adresse ! 
 Many were the volumes that they made more and 
 
 less. 
 
 Theyr bokes ye lay up tyll that the lether moules ; 
 But yet for your myndes this boke I will impresse, 
 That is in titule the parlament of foules.
 
 Robert Copland. 13 
 
 So many lerned, at leest they saye they be, 
 Was never sene doynge so fewe good workes. 
 Where is the time that they do spende trow ye 
 In prayers ? ye, where ? in feldes and parkes ? 
 Ye, but where by becommon all the clerkes ? 
 In slouthe and ydlenesse theyr tyme defoules. 
 For lack of wrytynges conteynynge moral sperkes, 
 I must imprynt the parlament of foules ; 
 
 Dytees and letters them can I make myselfe, 
 Of suche ynowe ben dayly to me brought ; 
 Olde moral bokes stond styll upon the shelfe, 
 I am in fere they wyll never be bought ; 
 Tryfles and toyes they ben the thynges so sought, 
 Theyr wyttes tryndle lyke these flemyshe boules ; 
 Yet gentyl clerkes followe hym ye ought 
 That dyd endyte the parlament of foules. 
 
 L' ENVOY. 
 
 Layde upon shelfe, in leves all to torne, 
 With Letters dymme, almost defaced clene 
 Thy hyllynge rote, with wormes all to worne 
 Thou lay, that pyte it was to sene ; 
 Bounde with olde quayres, for age all hoorse and' 
 
 grene ; 
 
 Thy mater endormed, for lacke of thy presence ; 
 But nowe arte losed, go shewe forth thy sentence. 
 
 And where thou become so ordre fhy language, 
 That in excuse thy prynter loke thou haue, 
 Whiche hathe the kepte from ruynous domage 
 In snowes wyte paper, thy mater for to save, 
 With thylke same language that Chaucer to the gave
 
 14 Book-Verse. 
 
 In termes olde, of sentence clered newe, 
 Than methe much sweter, who can his myncle 
 anewe. 
 
 And yf a lovever happen on the to rede, 
 Let be the goos with his lewde sentence 
 Unto the turtle, and not to her to take hede ; 
 For who so chaungeth, true love doth offence. 
 Love as I rede is floure of excellence, 
 And love also I rote of wretchednesse ; 
 Thus be two loves, scrypture bereth wytnesse. 
 
 The Assembly of Ponies, 1530 (printed by 
 Wynkyn de Worde). 
 
 r 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 GO, lytel quayre, to every degree, 
 And to thy mater desyre them to loke, 
 Desyring them for to pardon me, 
 
 That am so bolde to put them in my boke. 
 To eschew vyce I thee undertoke, 
 
 Dyseyning no maner of creature : 
 I were to blame, yf I them forsoke : 
 None in this world of welth can be sure. 
 
 R. COPLAND, The maner to live well, devoutly, 
 and salutary every daye,for all persons of 
 mean estate, compyled by Maistre Johan 
 Queinen, doctour in divinilie at Paris, 1540, 
 and translated by R. Copland. (This book 
 begins with the prologue of " R. Copland, 
 compylar and prynter of this boke," and 
 ends with the "Lenvoy of the auctor" 
 as above.)
 
 TO THE READERS. 
 AMYS, LECTEURS, &c. 
 
 KIND readers, who vouchsafe to cast an eye 
 On what ensues, lay all prevention by. 
 Let not my book your indignation raise : 
 It means no harm, no poison it conveys. 
 Except in point of laughing, it is true, 
 'Twont teach you much : It being all my view 
 To inspire with mirth the hearts of those that 
 
 moan, 
 
 And change to laughter the afflictive groan : 
 For laughter is man's property alone. 
 
 F. RABELAIS, The inestimable Life of the Great 
 Gargantua, Father of Pantagruel, hereto- 
 fore composed by an Abstractor of the Quint- 
 Essence, a Book full of Pantagruelism. 
 
 r 
 
 HIS BOOK. 
 
 YE that in youth desire to know 
 A good way for to take, 
 Whereby to riches ye might grow, 
 
 And idleness to forsake, 
 This little book with diligence 
 
 See that ye read and mark, 
 Thoroughly noting the good sense 
 
 Contained in this warke (sic). 
 Pithy precepts you shall here find, 
 
 Right pleasant for to read,
 
 1 6 Book-Verse. 
 
 Whereof perchance some youth are blind, 
 
 And thereof shall have need. 
 Do not therefore despise this book 
 
 Because it goeth in rhyme, 
 For they that on this book doth look 
 
 Shall find the matter fine. 
 
 The Pleasaunt playne and pythye Pathewaye 
 leadynge to a vertuous and honest lyfe, 1550. 
 
 r 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 GO forth, lytell boke, God be thy spede, 
 Ordre thy selfe accordyngly ; 
 Set nought by hyme that doth the rede, 
 In case he warble the to denye ; 
 Nat one so good but he hath an enemye : 
 Hyde nat thy face for a proude cracke, 
 Let hym be knowen that dyd the make. 
 
 Go forth queckely wyth pase demure ; 
 
 Of one prerogatyve sure thou arte, 
 
 Set for to be in hye honour 
 
 In myddes of the whole femynyne herte ; 
 
 Nexte God that wyll all take thy parte, 
 
 Hyll the with sylke and lymme the with golde 
 
 Now passe on thy ways, thou mayst be bolde. 
 
 Glory be thy garment, so worthy thou arte ; 
 Of syluer the claspes, and of fyne golde ; 
 So true is thy processe in evry parte,
 
 L? Envoy. 1 7 
 
 In the hye lerachye thou may be enrolde ; 
 None other lyke the that ever was solde, 
 Highest of all other in trueth is thy dytye, 
 Lygth where thou shalte nowe farewell fro me. 
 
 If question be moved who is thyne authour, 
 
 Be not adorad to utter hys name ; 
 
 Say Edwarde Gosynhyll toke the labour 
 
 For woman hede the for to frame ; 
 
 Call hym thyne authour, do nat as shame ; 
 
 Thankes lokes he none for, yet would he be glad 
 
 A staffe to stande by that all women had. 
 
 E. GOSYNHYLL, The Praise of all Women (n. d.). 
 
 r 
 
 L' ENVOY. 
 
 GO forth, lytell booke ; be not a frayde 
 To be accept wyth them that are wyse r 
 And shew them playne what so be sayde 
 In any parte of this treatyse 
 Doth not dysdayne theyr honestyse, 
 But for the lewde might have a myrrour 
 Here by to amende theyr damnable error. 
 
 Like as the preacher doth discomende 
 All vyces lyuynge with mouth and wyll, 
 Or as the mynstrell doth entende, 
 Wyth helpe of Lute, fynger or quyll, 
 Examply shewynge, to converte the yll : 
 
 2
 
 1 8 Book- Verse. 
 
 Lyke so myne auctor doth the same : 
 No creature lyuynge spoken by name. 
 
 EDWARD GOSYNHYLL, The Scale House of 
 Women, 1560 
 
 ADDRESS TO HIS BOOK.* 
 
 SEN thou contains mo vailzeand men and wyse, 
 Than evir was red in ony buke, but dout, 
 Gif ony churle or velane the dispyse, 
 BID, HENCE HIM HARLOT ! HE is NOT OF 
 
 THIS ROUT ; 
 
 For heir are kingis, an mony nobillis stout, 
 And nane of thame pertenand to his clan. 
 Thou art sa full of nobylnes partout, 
 
 I WALD NANE RED THE, EOT ANE NOBYLL 
 MAN ! 
 JOHN BELLENDEN, Hector Boyse's Chronicle. 
 
 r 
 
 THE BOKE SPEAKETH. 
 
 \ LTHOUGH I do here divers reprehende 
 \. Worthy indeed of reprehension, 
 Yet to rebuke such do I not intend 
 As be of honest conversation. 
 
 The wicked to rebuke my mind it is, 
 For full wickedly their lives do they lead ;
 
 The Boke Speaketh. 19 
 
 But such as from pure life go not amiss 
 Do not I touch in word nor yet in deed. 
 
 The good in their goodness still to remain 
 
 Is my desire even from the very heart ; 
 
 The ungodly also would I full fain 
 
 That they should from their wickedness depart. 
 
 If any shall perceive by reading me 
 Themselves guilty in things that they do read, 
 Go flee from the vice of impurity, 
 Let them endeavour themselves with all speed. 
 
 Unto cleanness of life is mine intent 
 To allure all men, if possible it be, 
 That all men may keep God's commandment, 
 And come to glorious felicity. 
 T. BECON, An Invective against Whoredom, 1560. 
 
 r 
 
 IN PRAISE OF ROGER ASCHAM'S LATIN 
 GRAMMAR. 
 
 OF English books as I could find, 
 I have perused many a one : 
 Yet so wel done unto my mind, 
 As this is, yet have I found none. 
 
 The words of matter here do rise, 
 So fitly and so naturally, 
 As heart can wish or wit devise, 
 In my conceit and fantasy.
 
 2O Book- Verse. 
 
 The words well chosen and well set, 
 Do bring such light unto the sense : 
 As if I lackt I would not lette, 
 To buy this book for forty pence. 
 THOMAS BLUNDEVILLE, Three Treatises, 1561. 
 
 THE BOOKE'S VERD1CTE. 
 
 WANTING I have been long truly, 
 In English language many a day : 
 Lo, yet at last now here am I, 
 Your labours great for to delay, 
 And pleasant pastime you to showe, 
 Minding your wits to mine, I trow. 
 
 For though to mirth I do provoke, 
 
 Unto wisdom yet move I more ; 
 
 Laying on them a pleasant yoke, 
 
 Wisdom I mean, which is the dore 
 
 Of all good things and commendable : 
 
 Doubt this I think no man is able. 
 
 R. LEVER, The Philosopher's Game (chess), 1563.' 
 
 1 This "poem" was doubtless the production of the 
 publisher of the above-named quaint little book on 
 chess James Rowbothum who also wrote the epistle 
 dedicatory in thirty-seven verses to Lord Robert 
 Dudley, and who was not forgetful of saying a good 
 word on his own account, as may be seen from the 
 following verse : 
 
 "All things belonging to this game 
 
 For reason you may bye : 
 At the bookshop under Bochurche, 
 In Cheapside, redilye."
 
 21 
 
 THE VERDICT OF THE BOOK. 
 
 LEARNE here thou shalt one God most hig 
 To rule the heavens, the earth and all : 
 The Sun, the Moon, the Starry Sky, 
 Subject to be unto his call. 
 Of patience likewise read thou shalt, 
 Which is a gift of all most pure, 
 Above the rest I thee ensure. 
 
 God's providence here thou shalt know, 
 His great good will I do declare : 
 His mighty force I plain do show : 
 Read on, therefor, and do not spare. 
 Though that my skill be very bare, 
 Yet fruit hereby well take you may, 
 If it to read you will essay. 
 
 In whom to put thy trust be bold, 
 
 In whom to joy here thou may'st see : 
 
 A treasure passing any gold, 
 
 Or precious stones what they may be. 
 
 The same I do declare to thee : 
 
 To read me, therefor, take some pain, 
 
 And that I count my author's gain. 
 
 Farewell, my friends, for for your sakes 
 My author hath abroad me sent : 
 I pass not for all crabbed crakes 
 That Zoilus to make is bent ; 
 For all for you my author meant, 
 When that in hand his pen he took,
 
 22 Book- Verse. 
 
 And out this story first did look. 
 Patienter ferenda qua mutari non possunt. 
 
 JOHN PARTRIDGE, The Worthie Hystorie of I lie Mostc 
 Noble and Valiaunt Knight Plasidas, 1566. 
 
 r 
 
 THE PREFACE OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS 
 SONNE FAUSTINUS, AND UNTO THE 
 READERS OF THIS BOOK. 
 
 THAT I to thee some joyous jests 
 may shew in gentle glose, 
 And frankly feed thy bended eares 
 
 with passing pleasant prose : 
 So that thou daine in seemely sort 
 
 this wanton booke to view, 
 That is set out and garnished fine, 
 
 with written phrases new. 
 I will declare how one may hap 
 
 his humane figure lost, 
 And how in brutish formed shape 
 
 his loathed life he tost. 
 And how he was in course of time 
 
 from such estate unfold, 
 Who eftsoone turn'd to pristine shape, 
 
 his lot unlucky told. 
 
 APULEIUS, The Golden Ass (translated by 
 Adlington, 1566).
 
 TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 GO, lytell boke, and put the in the grace 
 Of hym that is most of excellence, 
 And be nat hardy to appease in no place 
 Without supporte of his magnyfycence ; 
 And who so euer in the fynde offence, 
 
 Be not to bolde for no presumpcyon ; 
 Thy selfe enarme aye in pacyence, 
 And thee submytte [to] theyr correcyon. 
 
 Verba translatoris ad librum suum* 
 
 And for thou art enlymned with no flowres 
 
 Of Retoryke, but with whyte and blacke, 
 Thereof thou muste abyde all showres 
 
 Of them that lyste set on the a lacke ; 
 
 And whan thou art most lykely go to wracke 
 Agaynst them thyne Errour not diffende, 
 
 But humbly withdraw and go a backe, 
 Requerynge them all yt is amysse to mende. 
 
 RICHARD PYNSON, The Hystory, Sege, and 
 Dystruccyon of Troye, 1573. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 " \ \ 7HY should'st thou make such haste abroad 
 VV to be, 
 
 a mean whereby to purchase me defame ? 
 Yet mightest thou still abide and stay with me, 
 and I thereby remain devoid of blame :
 
 24 Book- Verse. 
 
 But if I once permit thee scope to trudge 
 know not, I, what every man will judge." 
 
 The Book to the Author. 
 " What doubts be these that thus doth dull thy 
 
 brain, 
 
 or what conceits doth yet thy mind pursue ? 
 I know no cause thou should'st me thus restrain, 
 
 but give me scope to such as list to view : 
 Then they, no doubt, will thank thee for thy pain, 
 As I suppose thou seekest no greater gain." 
 
 The Author. 
 " I crave no more, indeed, but the goodwill 
 
 of such as shall thy simple sense behold ; 
 But this, I doubt, my rude and slender skill 
 
 may give them cause to judge me overbold : 
 So I, instead of thanks, may purchase blame, 
 So vain a toy to set forth in my name." 
 
 The Book. 
 " And who so ready ever fault to find 
 
 as witless head that least of all doth know ? 
 For none so bold, they say, as bayerd blind, 
 and none more rife their doultish domes to 
 
 shew ; 
 
 Where wise men yet will deem thy doings right : 
 What care'st thou then for Zoilus' cankered spite ? " 
 
 The Author. 
 
 " Well, yet, my book, I give thee this in charge : 
 the manners mark of such as thee peruse :
 
 Upon Gascoigris Poems. 25 
 
 If thou perceivest their tongues to run at large 
 
 in finding fault the Author to accuse, 
 Tell thou them, then, I meant not to offend : 
 What they mislike desire them they would mend." 
 
 BARNABE RICH, A Right Excelent and Pleasaunt Dia- 
 logue, betwcne Mercury and an English Souldier, 
 1574- 
 
 UPON GASCOIGN'S POEMS, "THE STEEL 
 GLASS." 
 
 O WEET were the sauce would please each kind 
 v3 of taste : 
 
 The life likewise were pure that never swerved, 
 
 For spiteful tongues, in cankered stomachs placed, 
 
 Deem worst of things which best (percase) deserved. 
 
 But what for that ? this med'cine may suffice, 
 
 To scorn the rest, and seek to please the wise. 
 
 Though sundry minds in sundry sort do deem, 
 Yet worthier wights yield praise for every pain ; 
 But envious brains do nought (or light) esteem, 
 Such stately steps as they cannot attain : 
 For whoso reaps renown above the rest, 
 With heaps of hate shall surely be oppressed. 
 
 Wherefore, to write my censure of this book, 
 This Glass of Steel impartially doth show, 
 Abuses all to such as in it look, 
 From prince to poor ; from high estate to low.
 
 26 Book- Verse. 
 
 As for the verse, who list like trade to try, 
 I fear me much shall hardly reach so high. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH, 1576. 
 
 TO HIS BOOKE.* 
 
 GO, little book ! thyself present, 
 As child whose parent is unkent, 
 To him this is the president 
 Of nobleness and of chivalry : 
 And if that Envie bark at thee, 
 As sure it will, for succour flee 
 Under the shadow of his wing ; 
 And asked who thee forth did bring, 
 A shepherd's swain, say, did thee sing 
 All as his straying flocks he fed : 
 And, when his Honour has thee read, 
 Crave pardon for my hardihead. 
 But, if that any ask thy name, 
 Say thou wert base-begot with blame ; 
 For-thy thereof thou didst take shame. 
 And, when thou art past jeopardee, 
 Come tell me what was said of me, 
 And I will send more after thee. 
 EDMUND SPENSER, The Shcpheardes Calendar, 1579.
 
 TO HIS POEM: INTRODUCTORY. 
 
 HAPPY, ye leaves ! when as those lilly hands, 
 Which hold my life in their dead-doing 
 might, 
 
 Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands, 
 Like captives trembling at the victors sight. 
 And happy lines ! on which, with starry light, 
 Those lamping eyes will deigne sometimes to look, 
 And reade the sorrowes of my dying spright, 
 Written with teares in harts close-bleeding book. 
 And happy rymes ! bath'd in the sacred brooke 
 Of Helicon, whence she derived is ; 
 When ye behold that Angels blessed looke, 
 My soules long-lacked foode, my heavens blis ; 
 Leaves, lines, and rymes, seeke her to please 
 
 alone, 
 
 Whom if ye please, I care for other none ! 
 EDMUND SPENSER, Amoretti, 1595. 
 
 TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 '""T'HUS have I taught thee what good course 
 
 -L thou oughtst of right to hold, 
 Thou art a Booke, goe where thou wilt, 
 
 like Bayard blind be bold. 
 Thou shall have mates to follow thee 
 
 and help thee if thou fall.
 
 28 Book- Verse. 
 
 I have wide scopes at will to walk, 
 yea Penne and Muse at call, 
 
 And other Books that I must needes 
 commit to Worldes report. 
 
 He is thrice blest that well doth worke, 
 our time is here but short. 
 
 THOMAS CHURCHYARD, A Lamentable and Pitifull 
 Description of the Wofull Warres in Flanders, 1578. 
 
 BOOKS AND TRUTH. 
 
 CONDEMN the daies of elders great or small, 
 And then blurre out the course of present 
 tyme; 
 
 Cast one age down, and so doe ovethrow all, 
 And burne the bookes of printed prose or ryme : 
 Who shall beleeve he rules, or she doth reign, 
 In tyme to come, if writers loose their paine ? 
 The pen records tyme past and present both : 
 Skill brings forth bookes, and bookes is nurse to 
 
 troth. 
 THOMAS CHURCHYARD, Worthiness of Wales, 1587. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOK.* 
 
 E goodly flowers of Court thou needs not 
 1 fear, 
 For they are sweet, and meek of nature throw : 
 
 1 This address consists of nearly three pages.
 
 The Author and his Book. 29 
 
 There wisdom will with writers humour bear, 
 
 If humbly still thou canst behave thee now. 
 Thy master's pen hath purchased favour there 
 
 Amongst the dames of fair Diana's train, 
 Where beauty shines, like silver drops of rain 
 
 In sunny day : O book ! thou happy art 
 If with those nymphs thou may'st be entertain'd ; 
 
 If any one of them take in good part 
 A verse or word, thou has't a garland gained 
 
 Of glory great ; for fame herself must sound 
 Out of their voice ; look what they do pronounce, 
 
 Like tennis-ball, aloft it doth rebound. 
 
 THOMAS CHURCHYARD, A Musical Consort . . . called 
 Churchyard's Charitie, 1595. 
 
 THE AUTHOR AND HIS BOOK. 
 
 Author, 
 
 " "IV T OW, having made thee, seelie book, 
 1 T| and brought thee to this frame, 
 Full loath am I to publish thee, 
 lest thou impair my name." 
 
 The Book. 
 
 " Why so? good Master, whats the cause, 
 
 why you so loath should be 
 To send me forth into the world 
 
 my fortune for to try ? "
 
 3O Book- Verse. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 ' ' This is the cause : for that I know 
 the wicked thou wilt move ; 
 
 And eke because thy ignorance 
 is such as none can love." 
 
 The Book. 
 
 " I doubt not but all godly men 
 
 will love and like me well, 
 And for the other I care not, 
 
 in pride although they swell." 
 
 The Author. 
 
 " Thou art also no less in thrall 
 
 and subject every way 
 To Momus and to Zoilus crew, 
 
 who'll daily at thee bay." 
 
 The Book. 
 
 " Though Momus rage and Zoilus carpe, 
 
 I fear them not at all : 
 The Lord my God, in whom I trust, 
 
 shall soon cause them to fall. 
 
 The Author. 
 
 ' ' Well, sith thou wouldst so fain be gone 
 
 I can thee not withhold : 
 Adieu therefore ; God be thy speed, 
 
 and bless thee a hundred fold."
 
 The Author to the Reader. 31 
 
 The Book. 
 
 " And you also, good Master mine, 
 God bless thee with his grace ; 
 
 Preserve you still, and grant to you 
 
 in Heaven a dwelling place." 
 PHILIP STUBBES, The Anatomic of Abuses, 1583. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO THE READER. 
 
 GO forth, my book, into the world, 
 As far as sea doth flow : 
 Beyond the sea if winds thee drive, 
 
 The pith of wisdom show. 
 Touch no estate, no ill tongue fear, 
 
 With no contention mell : 
 Leave unsaluted no good man, 
 
 Care for no fiend of hell. 
 Teach children parents to obey, 
 
 Bid servants please the Lord : 
 Will kinsmen to be kind to kin, 
 
 Move brethren to accord. 
 Tell suiters that an happy choice 
 
 Proceedeth from above : 
 Wish wives to be their husbands crowns, 
 
 Husbands their wives to love. 
 Commend the hand of diligence, 
 
 Commend the lip of truth : 
 Commend the gray head of old age, 
 
 Commend the strength of youth.
 
 32 Book- Verse. 
 
 Dispraise dame pride, and chide fierce wrath, 
 
 Inveigh against foul sloth : 
 To wake, to rise, to go abroad, 
 
 To worke in winter loth. 
 
 And so go forth into the world, 
 
 Yea run with speed and say : 
 Yea fly as fast as any bird, 
 
 Yea live and that for aye. 
 If these my verses do perhaps 
 
 Give gravity offence : 
 To this effect with gentle words 
 
 Answer in my defence. 
 That poetry I seldom use, 
 
 That verses lawful be, 
 And that they may be cancelled 
 
 With right good leave from me. 
 Minerva playing on the pipe, 
 
 Did see her face to swell : 
 And thereupon she threw away 
 
 Her pipe into the well. 
 If this my meter seem not meet, 
 
 Let it be cast away : 
 But thou, my book, renewed like 
 
 The ^igle, live for aye. 
 
 PETER MUFFET, A Commentarie upon the Whole Booke 
 of the Proverbs of Solomon, 1596. 
 
 r
 
 33 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF A LIBRARY. 
 
 IVE me leave 
 To enjoy myself. That place, that does 
 
 contain 
 
 My books, the best companions, is to me 
 A glorious court, where hourly I converse 
 With the old sages and philosophers ; 
 And sometimes, for variety, I confer 
 With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ; 
 Calling their victories, if unjustly got, 
 Unto strict account, and, in my fancy, 
 Deface their ill-placed statues. Can I then 
 Part with such pleasures to embrace 
 Uncertain vanities ? No, be it your care 
 To augment your heap of wealth ; it shall be mine 
 To increase in knowledge. Lights there, for my 
 
 study ! 
 
 JOHN FLETCHER, The Elder Brother (Act I.,Sc. 2). 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF BOOKS. 
 
 OLDEN volumes ! richest treasures ! 
 
 Objects of delicious pleasures ! 
 You my eyes rejoicing please, 
 You my hands in rapture seize. 
 Brilliant wits and musing sages, 
 Lights who beam'd through many ages, 
 
 3
 
 34 Book- Verse. 
 
 Left to your conscious leaves their story, 
 And dared to trust you with their glory ; 
 And now their hope of fame achieved, 
 Dear volumes ! you have not deceived ! 
 
 HENRY DE RANTZU.' 
 
 "THE AUTOR." 
 
 SOME Poets they are poore, and so am I, 
 except I bee reliev'd in Chancery ; 
 I scorne to begg, my Pen nere us'd the trade, 
 
 this Book to please my friends is only made. 
 Which is performed by my aged Quil 
 
 for to extend my country my good will. 
 Let not my country think I took this paynes 
 in expectation of any gaines. 
 
 G. B., The Famous History of Saint George, England's 
 Brave Champion (seventeenth-century MS.)- 
 
 r 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOKE. 
 
 T^AREWELL, my little booke, and tell thy 
 
 _L friends 
 
 The deluge of the deepe confusion ebs ; 
 
 Then shew thy leafe to all, but haile the best, 
 
 1 The founder of the great library at Copenhagen-. 
 The original Latin of these verses is quoted by D'Israeli, 
 Curiosities of Literature.
 
 On Books. 35 
 
 And safely leave it in their holy hands, 
 
 That will upright thy language, cleere thy sense, 
 
 As matter but of meere preeminence. 
 
 Yet as the starre that onward bringes the sunne, 
 
 Thou hast perfection where thy light begunne : 
 
 This tell thy friendes, and, little booke, farewell. 
 
 ALEXANDER TOP, The Olive Leafe, or Universal! 
 
 A. B.C., 1603. 
 
 r 
 
 ON BOOKS. 
 
 TO THE LADY LUCY COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 
 
 ***** 
 
 AND though books, madam, cannot make this 
 mind, 
 
 Which we must bring apt to be set aright ; 
 Yet do they rectify it in that kind, 
 And touch it so, as that it turns that way 
 Where judgement lies. And though we cannot find 
 The certain place of truth ; yet do they stay, 
 And entertain us near about the same ; 
 And give the soul the best delights, that may 
 Encheer it most, and most our spirits inflame 
 To thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends. 
 ***** 
 
 SAMUEL DANIEL.
 
 36 Book- Verse. 
 
 CONCERNING THE HONOUR OF BOOKS.* 
 
 SINCE honour from the honourer proceeds, 
 How well do they deserve, that memorize 
 And leave in books for all posterities 
 The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds ; 
 When all their glory else, like water-weeds 
 Without their element, presently dies, 
 And all their greatness quite forgotten lies, 
 And when and how they flourished no man heeds. 
 How poor remembrances are statues, tombs, 
 And other monuments that men erect 
 To princes, which remain in closed rooms 
 Where but a few behold them, in respect 
 Of Books, that to the universal eye 
 Show how they lived, the other where they lie. 
 JOHN FLORIO, Montaigne, 1613 
 
 TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 BOOK, whither goes thou, I had rather have 
 thee 
 
 To stay still with me, for my book may save me : 
 Save me, its true, and that's the case I crave 
 Thou'de to the world, that thou the world might 
 
 save ; 
 
 But that's a taske (my book) too hard for thee, 
 Bid hang the world so thou wilt save me :
 
 Ad Bibliopolam. 37 
 
 Yet pray thee be advis'd whom thou dost check, 
 For speaking truth may chance to break thy neck. 
 Which to prevent let this be understood, 
 Great men though ill they must be stiled good, 
 Their black is white, their vice is virtue made : 
 But 'mongst the base call still a spade a spade ; 
 If thou canst thus dispense (my book) with crimes, 
 Thou shalt be hugg'd and honour'd in these times. 
 R. BRATHWAIT, A Strappado for the Diuell, 1615. 
 
 r 
 
 SIR THOMAS OVERBURY ON BOOKS. 
 
 BOOKS are a part of man's prerogative. 
 In formal ink they thoughts and voices hold, 
 That we to them our solitude may give, 
 And make time present travel that of old. 
 Our life, Fame pierceth at the end, 
 And Books it farther backward do extend. 
 
 The Wife. 
 
 AD BIBLIOPOLAM. 
 
 T)RINTER, or Stationer, or what ere thou prove, 
 -L Shalt me record to Time's posterity, 
 I'll not enjoin thee, but request in love 
 That so much deign my Book to dignify, 
 As first it be not with your Ballads mixt ; 
 Next, not at Playhouses 'mongst Pippins sold ; 
 
 434340
 
 38 Book-Verse. 
 
 Then that on Posts, by th' Ears it stand not fixt 
 For every dull Mechanic to behold ; 
 Last, that it come not brought in Pedlers packs 
 To common Fairs of country, town, or city, 
 Sold at a booth 'mongst pins and almanacks. 
 Yet on thy hands to lie thou'lt say 'twere pity : 
 
 Let it be rather for tobacco rent, 
 
 Or butchers' wives, next clensing-week in Lent. 
 
 HENRY PARROT, The Mastive, or Younge-Whelpe oj 
 the Olde-Dogge, 1615. 
 
 r 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED, 
 THE AUTHOR MR. WILLIAM SHAKE- 
 SPEARE : 
 
 AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US. 
 
 TO draw no envy (Shakespeare) on thy name, 
 Am I thus ample to thy Booke, and Fame : 
 While I confesse thy writings to be such, 
 
 As neither Man, nor Muse, can praise too much. 
 'Tis true, and all mens suffrage. But these wayes 
 
 Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise : 
 For seeliest Ignorance on these may light, 
 
 Which, when it sounds at best, but eccho's right ; 
 Or blinde Affection, which doth ne're advance 
 
 The truth, but gropes, and urgeth all by chance ; 
 Or crafty Malice, might pretend this praise, 
 
 And thinke to ruine, where it seem'd to raise.
 
 To tJie Memory of Shakespeare. 39 
 
 These are, as some infamous baud, or whore, 
 
 Should praise a Matron. What could hurt her 
 
 more ? 
 But thou art proofe against them, and, indeed, 
 
 Above th'ill fortune of them, or the need. 
 I, therefore will begin : Soule of the Age ! 
 
 The applause ! delight ! the wonder of our Stage ! 
 My Shakespeare, rise ; I will not lodge thee by 
 
 Chaucer, or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie 
 A little further, to make thee a roome : 
 
 Thou art a Moniment, without a tombe, 
 And art alive still, while thy Booke doth live, 
 
 And we have wits to read, and praise to give. 
 That I not mixe thee so, my braine excuses ; 
 
 I meane with great, but disproportion'd Muses : 
 For, if I thought my judgement were of yeeres, 
 
 I should commit thee surely with thy peeres, 
 And tell, how farre thou didst our Lily out-shine, 
 
 Or sporting Kid, or Marlowes mighty line. 
 And though thou hadst small Latine, and lesse Greeke 
 
 From thence to honour thee, I would not seeke 
 For names ; but call forth thund'ring ^Eschylus, 
 
 Euripides, and Sophocles to us, 
 Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova, dead, 
 
 To life againe, to heare thy Buskin tread, 
 And shake a Stage : Or, when thy Sockes were on, 
 
 Leave thee alone, for the comparison 
 Of all that insolent Greece, or haughtie Rome 
 
 Sent forth, or since did from their ashes come. 
 Triumph, my Britaine ! thou hast one to showe, 
 
 To whom all Scenes of Europe homage owe.
 
 4O Book- Verse. 
 
 lie was not of an age, but for all time ! 
 
 And all the Muses still were in their prime, 
 When like Apollo he came forth to warme 
 
 Our cares, or like a Mercury to charme ! 
 Nature herself was proud of his designes, 
 
 And joy'd to weare the dressing of his lines ! 
 Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit, 
 
 As since she will vouchsafe no other Wit. 
 The merry Greeke, tart Aristophanes, 
 
 Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please ; 
 But antiquated, and deserted lie 
 
 As they were not of Natures family. 
 Yet must I not give Nature all : Thy Art, 
 
 My gentle Shakespeare, must enjoy a part. 
 For though the Poets matter, Nature be, 
 
 His Art doth give the fashion. And, that he, 
 Who casts to write a living line, must sweat, 
 
 (Such as thine are) and strike the second heat 
 Upon the Muses anvil : turne the same, 
 
 (And himselfe with it) that he thinkes to frame ; 
 Or for the laurell, he may gaine a scorne, 
 
 For a good Poet's made, as well as borne. 
 And such wert thou. Looke how the fathers face 
 
 Lives in his issue, even so, the race 
 Of Shakespeares minde, and manners, brightly 
 shines 
 
 In his well-torned, and true-filed lines : 
 In each of which, he seemes to shake a Lance, 
 
 As brandish't at the eyes of ignorance. 
 Sweet Swan of Avon ! what a sight it were 
 
 To see thee in our waters yet appeare,
 
 To the Reader. 41 
 
 And make those flights upon the bankes of Thames, 
 
 That so did take Eliza, and our James ! 
 But stay ; I see thee in the Hemisphere 
 
 Advanc'd, and make a Constellation there ! 
 Shine forth, thou Starre of Poets, and with rage, 
 
 Or influence, chide, or cheere the drooping 
 
 Stage; 
 
 Which, since thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd 
 like night, 
 
 And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light. 
 
 BEN JONSON (prefixed to first folio edition of 
 Shakespeare's Plays, 1623). 
 
 r 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 THIS Figure, that thou here seest put, 
 It was for gentle Shakespeare cut ; 
 Wherein the Grauer had a strife 
 
 With Nature, to out-doo the life : 
 O, could he but haue drawne his wit 
 
 As well in brasse, as he hath hit 
 His face ; the Print would then surpasse 
 
 All, that was euer writ in brasse. 
 But, since he cannot, Reader, looke 
 
 Not on his Picture, but his Booke. 
 BEN JONSON (first folio Shakespeare's Plays, 1623
 
 42 Book- Verse. 
 
 TO THE MEMORIE OF THE DECEASED 
 AUTHOUR, MAISTER W. SHAKE- 
 SPEARE. 
 
 SHAKE-SPEARE, at length thy pious fellowes 
 giue 
 The world thy Workes : thy Workes, by which, 
 
 out-liue 
 Thy Tombe, thy name must : when that stone is 
 
 rent, 
 
 And Time dissolues thy Stratford Moniment, 
 Here we aliue shall view thee still. This Booke, 
 When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee 
 
 looke 
 
 Fresh to all Ages : when Posteritie 
 Shall loath what's new, thinke all is prodegie 
 That is not Shake-speares ; eu'ry Line, each Verse 
 Here shall reuiue, redeeme thee from thy Herse. 
 Nor Fire, nor cankring Age, as Naso said, 
 Of his, thy wit-fraught Booke shall once inuade. 
 Nor shall I e're beleeue, or thinke thee dead 
 (Though mist) vntill our bankrout Stage be sped 
 (Impossible) with some new straine t' out-do 
 Passions of luliet, and her Romeo ; 
 Or till I heare a Scene more nobly take, 
 Then when thy half-Sword parlying Romans spake. 
 Till these, till any of thy Volumes rest 
 Shall with more fire, more feeling be exprest, 
 Be sure, our Shake-speare, thou canst neuer dye, 
 But crown'd with Lawrell, liue eternally. 
 
 L. DIGGES, Shakespeare's Plays, 1623.
 
 43 
 
 TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE. 
 
 WHEN I would know thee, Goodyere, my 
 thought looks 
 
 Upon thy well-made choice of friends, and books'; 
 Then do I love thee, and behold thy ends 
 In making thy friends books, and thy books friends : 
 Now must I give thy life and deed the voice 
 Attending such a study, such a choice ; 
 Where, though't be love that to thy praise doth 
 
 move, 
 It was a knowledge that begat that love. 
 
 BEN JONSON, Epigrams. 
 
 TO MY BOOKSELLER. 
 
 THOU that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely 
 well, 
 
 CalPst 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 tenners, or some clerk-like serving-man, 
 Who scarce can spell th' hard names ; whose knight 
 
 less can. 
 
 If without these vile arts, it will not sell, 
 Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well. 
 
 BEN JONSON, Epigrams.
 
 44 Book- Verse, 
 
 ON "CORYATS CRUDITIES" (1611). 
 
 TOM CORIAT, I have seen thy Crudities, 
 And, methinks, very strangely brude it is 
 With piece and patch together glued it is 
 And how (like thee) ill-favoured hu'de it is 
 In many line I see that lewd it is 
 And therefore fit to be subdued it is 
 
 Within thy broiling brain-pan stewed it is 
 And 'twix't thy grinding jaws well chewed it is 
 Within thy stomach closely mude it is 
 And last, in Court and County spewed it is 
 But now by wisdom's eye that viewed it is 
 They all agree that very rude it is 
 With foolery so full endude it is 
 That wondrously by fools pursued it is 
 As sweet as galls amaritude it is 
 And seeming full of pulchritude it is 
 But more to write, but to intrude it is 
 And therefore wisdom to conclude it is 
 
 JOHN TAYLOR, The World's Eighth Wonder. 
 
 BRIEFLY TO YOU THAT WILL READ. 
 
 TV T OT unto every one can read I write ; 
 1 > But only unto those that can read right, 
 And therefore if thou can'st not read it well, 
 I pray thee lay it down, and learn to spell. 
 But if thou wilt be hewing (like a drudge), 
 Hew on, and spare not, but forbear to Judge. 
 JOHN TAYLOR, Faire and Fowle Weather, 1615.
 
 45 
 
 FROM "A COMPARISON BETWEEN A 
 THIEF AND A BOOK." 
 
 A GOOD book steals the mind from vain pre- 
 tences, 
 
 From wicked cogitations and offences, 
 It makes us know the world's deceiving pleasures, 
 And set our hearts on never-ending treasures. 
 ***** 
 
 Men know not thieves from true men by their looks, 
 Nor by their outsides, no man can know books : 
 Both are to be suspected, all can tell, 
 And wise men ere they trust will try them well. 
 A book may be a title good and fair, 
 Though in it one may find small goodness there. 
 JOHN TAYLOR, An Arrant Thief, 1625. 
 
 r 
 
 FAST AND LOOSE. 
 
 FAST bind, fast find : my Bible was well bound ;. 
 A Thiefe came fast, and loose my Bible found ; 
 Was't bound and loose at once ? how can that be ?' 
 Twas loose for him, although 'twas bound for me.. 
 JOHN TAYLOR, Epigrammes, 1651.
 
 46 Book- Verse. 
 
 TO THE READER. 
 
 A LL these things heer collected, are not mine, 
 L\. But divers grapes make but one sort of 
 
 wine ; 
 
 So I, from many learned authors took 
 The various matters printed in this book. 
 What's not mine own by me shall not be father'd, 
 The most part I in fifty years have gather'd, 
 Some things are very good, pick out the best, 
 Good wits compiled them, and I wrote the rest. 
 If thou dost buy it, it will quit thy cost, 
 Read it, and all thy labour is not lost. 
 
 JOHN TAYLOR, Miscellanies; or Fifty Years' Gather- 
 ings out of Sundry Authors, etc., 1652. 
 
 MY LOVE TO JOHN TAYLOR AND HIS 
 NAVY. 
 
 IF art and nature both in one combine, 
 Upon some serious wits to draw a line ; 
 If virtue trusty faith with all their might. 
 Give nature virtue, art a nimble sight, 
 Art nature virtue, faith do well agree 
 To raise this work of thine eternity. 
 No sooner did thy pen but drop a tear 
 Upon this milky path, the gods were there, 
 Willing assistants, and did hoist up sail 
 To make the swifter in the thy naval tale.
 
 On the Librarie at Cambridge. 47 
 
 /Eolia a gentle gale, Neptune calm weather, 
 Till all our ships in harbour moored together. 
 If lord-ship, lady-ship, or court-ship fight, 
 Friend-ship and fellow-ship will do thee right 
 And wor-ship will assist to make a peace ; 
 Whilst surety-ship stands bound the wars should 
 
 cease. 
 
 Thus was that battle ended, but thy praise 
 Hath raised a crew which will outlast thy days ; 
 Steer on thy course then, let thy fertile brain 
 Plough up the deep which will run o'er the main 
 In such a fleet of sweet conceited matter, 
 Which sails by land more swifter than by water, 
 That whilst the ocean doth contain a billow 
 Thou and thy book shall never have a fellow. 
 
 F. MASON, in John Taylor's An Armado, or Nauye, 
 
 1627. 
 
 r 
 
 ON THE LIBRARIE AT CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 IN that great maze of books I sighed, and said, 
 " It is a grave-yard, each tome a tombe ; 
 Shrouded in hempen rags, behold the dead, 
 
 Coffined and ranged in crypts of dismal gloom, 
 Food for the worme and redolent of mold, 
 Trac'd with brief epitaph in tarnish'd gold." 
 
 Ah, golden-letter'd hope ! Ah, dolorous doom ! 
 Yet, mid the common death, when all is cold, 
 And mildewed pride in desolation dwells,
 
 48 Book- Verse. 
 
 A few great Immortalities of old 
 Stand brightly forth ; not tombes but living 
 
 shrines, 
 
 Where from high saint or martyr virtue wells, 
 Which on the living yet works miracles, 
 
 Spreading a relic wealth, richer than golden 
 
 mines. 
 J. M., 1627 (quoted inEdwards's Memoirs of 'Libraries). 
 
 AGAINST WRITERS THAT CARP AT 
 OTHER MENS BOOKS. 
 
 r I ^HE readers and the hearers like my books, 
 JL But yet some writers cannot them digest. 
 But what care I ? For when I make a feast, 
 I would my guests should praise it, not the cooks. 
 SIR JOHN HARINGTON. 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS BOOKE. 
 
 GO, little booke, into the largest world, 
 And blaze the chastnesse of thy maiden 
 muse : 
 
 Regardlesse of all enuie on thee hurl'd, 
 By the vnkindnesse that the Readers vse : 
 And those that enuie thee by scruples letter, 
 Let them take pen in hand, and make a better. 
 
 SIR JOHN H[ARINGTON,] Philoparthens louing Folly, 
 
 etc., 1628.
 
 49 
 
 THE EPISTLE TO ALL READERS. 
 
 WHEN in your hand you had this pamphlet 
 caught, 
 
 Your purpose was to post it over speedy, 
 But change your mind and feed not over greedy : 
 Till in what sort to feed, you first be taught. 
 Suppose both first and second course is done, 
 No goose, pork, capon, svites, nor such as these, 
 But look for fruit, as nuts and Parma cheese, 
 Comfets, conserves, and raisons to the sun, 
 Taste but a few at once, feed not too fickle, 
 So shall you find some cool, some warm, some 
 
 biting, 
 
 Some sweet in taste, some sharp, all so delighting 
 As may your inward taste and fancy tickle. 
 But though I wish readers, with stomachs full, 
 Vet fast, nor come not, if your wits be dull. 
 For I had liefe you did sit down and whistle, 
 As reading, not to read. So ends th' Epistle. 
 SIR JOHN HARINGTON, Epigrams, 1633. 
 
 r 
 
 TO MR. FELTHAM ON HIS BOOK OF 
 "RESOLVES." 1 
 
 ***** 
 
 T ET the curious eye of Lynceus look 
 
 J < Through every nerve and sinew of this book, 
 
 1 Owen Feltham, Resolves, Divine, Moral, and 
 Political, circa 1628. 
 
 4
 
 5O Book- Verse. 
 
 Of which 'tis full : let the most diligent mind 
 Pry through it, each sentence he shall find 
 Season'd with chaste, not with an itching salt, 
 More savouring of the lamp than of the malt. 
 But now too many think no wit Divine, 
 None worthy life, but whose luxurious line 
 Can ravish virgins thoughts ; and is it fit 
 To make a pandour, or a bawd of wit ? 
 But tell 'em of it, in contempt they look, 
 And ask in scorn if you will geld the book. 
 As if the effeminate brain could nothing do 
 That should be chaste, and yet be masc'line too. 
 Such books as these (as they themselves indeed 
 Truly confess) men do not praise, but read. 
 Such idle books, which if perchance they can 
 Better the brain, yet they corrupt the man. 
 Thou hast not one bad line so lustful bred, 
 As to dye maid or matron's cheek in red. 
 Thy modest wit, and witty honest letter 
 Make both at once my wit and me the better. 
 Thy Book a Garden is, and help us most 
 To regain that which we in Adam lost. 
 ***** 
 
 THOMAS RANDOLPH, Poems. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 GOE, ventrous book, thy selfe expose 
 To learned men, and none but those ; 
 For this carping age of ours 
 Snuffes at all but choycest flowers,
 
 To his Booke. 51 
 
 Cul'd from out the curious knots 
 
 Of quaint writers garden plots ; 
 
 These they smell at, these they savour, 
 
 Yet not free from feare, nor favour ! 
 
 But if thou wert smel'd a right 
 
 By a nose not stuft with spight, 
 
 Thou to all that learning prove. 
 So content thee, till due time 
 Blaze thy worth throughout this clime. 
 
 DAVID PERSON (of Loglands, Scotland), Varieties, or 
 a Surveigh of Rare and Excellent Matters, 1635. 
 
 TO HIS BOOKE. 
 
 DEARE issue, some thy name that view'd, 
 Did from rash premises conclude, 
 That, through suffusion of thy gall, 
 Thy parts would prove ictericall ; 
 And that (wrapt up in sheets unclean) 
 With scurrile rhymes and jests obscene, 
 Thou would'st prophane a good man's ear : 
 But, as thou art to virtue dear, 
 Such lewd licentious tricks defy, 
 And cheat such censures honestly. 
 THOMAS BANCROFT, Two Bookes of Epigrammes, 1639. 
 
 r
 
 52 Book-Verse. 
 
 THE BOOK TO THE READER. 
 
 IN my commission I am charg'd to greet 
 And mildly kiss the hands of all I meet, 
 Which I must do, or nevermore be seen 
 About the fount of sacred Hippocrene. 
 Smooth-socht Thalia takes delight to dance 
 I' th' schools of art ; the door of ignorance 
 She sets a cross on ; detractors she doth scorn, 
 Yet kneels to censure, so be it true-born. 
 I had rather fall into a beadle's hands 
 That reads, and with his reading understands, 
 Than some plush- Midas, that can read no further 
 But "Bees"! whose penning? Mew this man 
 
 doth murther 
 
 A writer's credit ; and wrong'd poesie, 
 Like a rich diamond dropt into the sea, 
 Is by him lost for ever. Quite through read me, 
 Or 'mongst waste paper into pasteboard knead me ; 
 Press me to death ; so, though your churlish hands 
 Rob me of life, I'll save my paper lands 
 For my next heir, who with poetic breath 
 May in sad elegy record my death. 
 If so ; I wish my epitaph may be 
 Only three words Opinion murdered me ! 
 JOHN DAY, The Parliament of Bees ; a Masque, 1640. 
 
 r
 
 53 
 
 A COMPARISON. 
 
 r ~p HERE'S a lady for my humour ! 
 JL A pretty book of flesh and blood, and well 
 Bound up, in a fair letter, too. Would I 
 Had her, with all the errata. 
 
 First I would marry her, that's a verb material, 
 Then I would print her with an index 
 Expurgatorious ; a table drawn 
 Of her court heresies ; and when she's read, 
 Cum privilegio, who dares call her wanton ? 
 
 JAMES SHIRLEY, The Cardinal, 1641. 
 
 ON MR. GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK IN- 
 TITULED "THE TEMPLE OF SACRED 
 POEMS," SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN. 
 
 KNOW you, fair, on what you look ? 
 Divinest love lies in this book : 
 Expecting fire from your fair eyes, 
 To kindle this his sacrifice. 
 When your hands untie these strings, 
 Think yo' have an angel by the wings ; 
 One that gladly would be nigh, 
 To wait upon each morning sigh ; 
 To flutter in the balmy air 
 Of your well-perfumed prayer ; 
 These white plumes of his he'l lend you, 
 Which every day to Heaven will send you :
 
 54 Book- Verse. 
 
 To take acquaintance of each sphere, 
 And all your smooth'd kindred there. 
 And though Herberfs name do owe 
 These devotions ; fairest, know 
 While I thus lay them on the shrine 
 Of your white hand, they are mine. 
 RICHARD CRASHAW, Steps to the Temple, 1646. 
 
 r 
 
 TO HIS BOOKS. 
 
 T T 7"HILE thou didst keep thy Candor undefil'd, 
 V V Deerely I lov'd thee ; as my first-borne 
 
 child : 
 
 But when I saw thee wantonly to roame 
 From house to house, and never stay at home ; 
 I brake my bonds of Love, and bad the goe, 
 Regardless whether well thou sped'st or no. 
 On with thy fortunes then, whate'er they be ; 
 If good I'll smile, if bad I'll sigh for Thee. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK, Hesperides, 1648. 
 
 r 
 
 HIS POETS. 
 
 NOW is the time for mirth, 
 Nor cheek, or tongue be dumbe ; 
 For with flowrie earth, 
 The golden pomp is come.
 
 His Poets. 55 
 
 The golden pomp is come ; 
 For now each tree do's weare 
 (Made of her Pap and Gum) 
 Rich beads of Amber here. 
 
 Now raignes the Rose, and now 
 Th' Arabian Dew besmears 
 My uncontrolled brow, 
 And my retorted haires. 
 
 Homer, this health to thee, 
 In Sack of such a kind, 
 That it would make thee see, 
 Though thou wert ne'r so blind. 
 
 Next Virgil I'll call forth, 
 To pledge this second Health, 
 In Wine, whose each cup's worth 
 An Indian Commonwealth. 
 
 A Goblet next I'll drink 
 To Ovid ; and suppose, 
 Made he the pledge, he'd think 
 The world had all one Nose. 
 
 Then this immensive cup 
 Of Aromatike wine, 
 Catullus, I quafife up 
 To that Terce Muse of thine. 
 
 Wild am I now with heat ; 
 O Bacchus ! coole thy Raies ! 
 Or frantick I shall eat 
 Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bayes.
 
 56 Book- Verse. 
 
 Round, round, the roof do's run ; 
 And being ravisht thus, 
 Come I will drink a tun 
 To my Properties. 
 
 Now to Tibullus, next, 
 This flood I drink to thee ; 
 But stay ; I see a Text, 
 That this presents to me. 
 
 Behold, Tibullus lies 
 
 Here burnt, whose smal return 
 
 Of ashes, scarce suffice 
 
 To fill a little Urne. 
 
 Trust to good Verses then ; 
 They onely will aspire, 
 When Pyramids, as men, 
 Are lost, i' th' funerall fire. 
 
 And when all Bodies meet 
 In Lethe to be drowned ; 
 Then onely Numbers sweet 
 With endless life are crowned. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK, Hesperides, 1648. 
 
 TO HIS BOOK. 
 
 MAKE haste away, and let one be 
 A friendly Patron unto thee ; 
 Lest rapt from thence, I see thee lyre 
 Torn for the use of Pasterie ;
 
 On the Books of Solomon. 57 
 
 Or see thy injur'd Leaves serve well, 
 To make loose Gownes for Mackerell : 
 Or see the Grocers in a trice, 
 Make hoods of thee to serve out spice. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 ON THE BOOKS OF SOLOMON OPENED 
 BY MASTER TRAPP.* 
 
 I STOOD in Solomon's Porch before, 
 Unable to unlock the doore, 
 And view the glory that within 
 Rather than live I would have seen. 
 
 Now in his Temple walk I can, 
 And hear my Maker talk with man, 
 And clearly understand his mind ; 
 Though mysteries, no mists, I find. 
 
 The Holy of Holies open lies, 
 No longer kept from common eyes ; 
 Each Starre may now an Eagle be, 
 And freely up to Phcebus flee. 
 
 If you would know how in I gat, 
 I passed through the Beautifull Gate ; 
 This Dore of Trapp, or this Trap-dore, 
 Trapp, Trapp ! but God I must adore. 
 JOHN TRAPP, Solomonis IIAN APETO2, 1650.
 
 58 Book-Verse. 
 
 TO THE PRINTER. 
 
 DID I diffuse a little more of brine 
 On m' Epigrams, or such and such a line 
 Or could I write as well as you can print, 
 Unless there be a fatal disaster in't, 
 (Although my Thaun were not of quick sale, ) 
 The muse will roundly off like Cotwald ale : 
 Pray tell the Bookseller if he will see't, 
 Th' Epigram, though not very salt, is sweet. 
 No obscure jest, no jeers fall from my pen, 
 But it delights in praise of books and men. 
 CLEMENT BARKSDALE, Nympha Libethris, 1651. 
 
 TO A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S, A 
 PERSON OF HONOURS 
 
 [Who lately writ a Religious book entituled Historical 
 Applications, and Occasional Meditations upon 
 Several Subjects, supposed to be the Lord Berkeley 
 of Berkeley.] 
 
 BOLD is the man that dares engage 
 For piety, in such an age. 
 Who can presume to find a guard 
 From scorn, when heaven's so little spar d ? 
 Divines are pardoned, they defend 
 Altars on which their lives depend ; 
 But the profane impatient are 
 When nobler pens make this their care.
 
 An Author's Opinion of his Book. 59 
 
 For why should these let in a beam 
 Of divine light to trouble them ; 
 And cull in doubt their pleasing thought 
 That none believes what we are taught ? 
 High birth and fortune warrant give 
 That such men write what they believe : 
 And feeling first what they indite, 
 New credit give to ancient light. 
 Amongst these few our author brings 
 His well-known pedigree from kings. 
 This book, the image of his mind, 
 Will make his name not hard to find. 
 I wish the throng of great and good 
 Made it less eas'ly understood. 
 
 EDMUND WALLER, Poems, 1664. 
 
 r 
 
 AN AUTHOR'S OPINION OF HIS OWN 
 BOOK.* 
 
 T T 7HOEVER buys this book will say, 
 V V There's so much money thrown away 
 The author thinks you are to blame, 
 To buy a book without a name ; 
 And to say truth, it is so bad, 
 A worse is nowhere to be had. 
 
 Folly in Print, or a Book of Rywes, 1667. 
 
 r
 
 60 Book-Verse, 
 
 ALAS POOR SCHOLAR! WHITHER WILT 
 THOU GO? 
 
 T N a melancholy study, 
 \. None but myself, 
 Methought my muse grew muddy ; 
 
 After seven years reading, 
 
 And costly breeding, 
 I felt, but could find no pelf ; 
 
 Into learned rags 
 
 I've rent my plush and satten, 
 And now am fit to beg 
 
 In Hebrew, Greek and Latin ; 
 Instead of Aristotle, 
 
 Would I had got a patten : 
 
 Alas poor scholar! whither wilt thou go ? 
 ***** 
 
 All the arts I have skill in, 
 
 Divine and humane ; 
 Yet all's not worth a shilling ; 
 
 When the women hear me, 
 
 They do but jeer me, 
 And say, I am profane ; 
 
 Once I remember, 
 
 I preached to a weaver, 
 I quoted Austin, 
 
 He quoted Dod and Cleaver ; 
 I nothing got, 
 
 He got a cloak and Beaver : 
 Alas poor scholar! whither wilt thou go ? 
 ROBERT WILD, D.D., Her Boreale, 1671.
 
 6i 
 
 THE BOOK.* 
 
 T^ TERNAL God ! Maker of all 
 
 1^ That have lived here since the man's fall ! 
 The Rock of Ages ! in whose shade 
 They live unseen when here they fade ! 
 
 Thou knew'st this papyr when it was 
 
 Meer seed, and after that but grass ; 
 
 Before 'twas drest or spun, and when 
 
 Made linen, who did wear it then, 
 
 What were their lifes, their thoughts and deeds, 
 
 Whether good corn, or fruitless weeds. 
 
 Thou knew'st this tree, when a green shade 
 Cover'd it, since a cover made, 
 And where it flourish'd, grew, and spread 
 As if it never should be dead. 
 
 Thou knew'st this harmless beast, when he 
 
 Did live and feed by thy decree 
 
 On each green thing ; then slept, well fed, 
 
 Cloath'd with this skin, which now lies spred 
 
 A covering o're this aged book, 
 
 Which makes me wisely weep, and look 
 
 On my own dust ; meer dust it is, 
 
 But not so dry and clean as this. 
 
 Thou knew'st and saw'st them all, and though 
 
 Now scatter'd thus, dost know them so. 
 
 O knowing, glorious Spirit ! when 
 Thou shall restore trees, beasts and men,
 
 62 Book- Verse. 
 
 When thou shall make all new again, 
 Destroying onely death and pain, 
 Give him amongst thy works a place 
 Who in them lov'd and sought thy face ! 
 
 HENRY VAUGHAN, Silex Scintillans, 1655. 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 BRIGHT books ! the perspectives to our weak 
 sights, 
 
 The clear projections of discerning lights, 
 Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume 
 
 day, 
 
 And track of fled souls, and their milkie way ; 
 The dead alive and busie, the still voice 
 Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's white decoys ! 
 Who lives with you, lives like those knowing 
 
 flowers, 
 Which in commerce with light spend all their 
 
 hours ; 
 
 Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun, 
 But with glad haste unveil to kiss the sun. 
 Beneath you, all is dark and a dead night, 
 Which whoso lives in, wants both health and 
 
 sight. 
 
 By sucking you, the wise, like bees, do grow 
 Healing and rich, though this they do most slow, 
 Because most choicely ; for as great a store 
 Have we of books, as bees of herbs, or more ;
 
 Many Bo.oks. 63 
 
 And the great task to try, then know, the good, 
 To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food, 
 Is a rare, scant performance. For man dyes 
 Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flyes. 
 But you were all choice flowers ; all set and 
 
 dressed 
 
 By old sage florists, who well knew the best ; 
 And I amidst you all am turned a weed, 
 Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed. 
 Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be 
 Content to know, what was too much for thee ! 
 HENRY VAUGHAN, Thalia Rediviva, 1678. 
 
 r 
 
 MANY BOOKS. 
 
 HOWEVER, many books, 
 Wise men have said, are wearisome ; who 
 reads 
 
 Incessantly^ and to his reading brings not 
 A spirit and judgment, equal or superior, 
 (And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere 
 
 seek ?) 
 
 Uncertain and unsettled still remains, 
 Deep-versed in books, and shallow in himself ; 
 Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys 
 And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge, 
 As children gathering pebbles on the shore. 
 
 J. MILTON, Paradise Regained, 1674.
 
 64 Book- Verse. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS.* 
 (FROM BOILEAU'S "LA LUTRIN," l68l.) 
 
 [The subject of the Lutrin is a dispute between the 
 Chanter and Treasurer (or Dean) of a Cathedral 
 Chapel in Paris, respecting the right of having a 
 reading-desk in the choir, and of giving the bene- 
 diction. If the Chanter can succeed in publicly 
 giving the benediction to the Dean himself, he 
 thinks he shall establish that privilege without 
 further trouble ; on the other hand, if the Dean can 
 get the start of him and bless the Chanter, his 
 predominance is secured for ever. Luckily for the 
 Dean, whenever he and the Chanter are together, 
 and a multitude is assembled, he enjoys, from pre- 
 scription, the greater influence ; and how he gains 
 his ends accordingly is set forth in the ensuing 
 "Battle of the Books," whieh is the original of 
 Swift's prose satire. Boileau is quite at home in it. 
 It gives him an opportunity, as Warton observes, of 
 indulging in his favourite pastime of ridiculing bad 
 authors. This perhaps is the liveliest and most 
 inventive passage in all the Lutrin ; and it may be 
 fairly pitted against the " Battle of the Beaux and 
 Ladies" in the Rape of the Lock, being at once 
 more satirical, probable, and full of life. If Pope's 
 mock-heroic excels in delicacy and fancy (which 
 I cannot but think it does), Boileau's may lay claim 
 to a jollier and robuster spirit of ridicule, and to a 
 greater portion of movement.] 
 
 MEANWHILE the canons, far from all this 
 noise, 
 
 With rapid mouthfuls urge the hungry joys : 
 With flowing cups and irritating salt, 
 Their thirst by turns they lay and they exalt ;
 
 The Battle of the Books. 65 
 
 Fervent they feed, with palate and with eye ; 
 Through all its caverns gapes a monstrous ven'son 
 
 pie. 
 
 To these Fame comes, and hastens to relate 
 The law consulted and the threaten'd fate : 
 Up starts the chief, and cries "Consult we too !" 
 With bile and claret strove his sudden hue. 
 Groans Everard from the board untimely torn, 
 But far away among the rest is borne. 
 
 A short and secret passage knew the band ; 
 Through this they ruffle, and soon reach the stand, 
 Where Barbin, bookseller of equal eye, 
 Sells good and bad to all who choose to buy. 
 Proud up the platform mount the valiant train, 
 Making loud way, when lo ! so fates ordain, 
 As proud and loud and close at hand are seen 
 The fervid squadron, headed by the Dea 
 The chiefs approaching, shew a turbid grace ; 
 They measure with their eyes, they fume, they face 
 And had they hoofs, had paw'd upon the place. 
 
 Thus two proud bulls, whom equal flames surprise 
 For some fair heifer with her Juno's eyes, 
 Forget their pasture, meet with horrid bows, 
 And stooping, threaten with their stormy brows. 
 
 But the sad Everard, elbow'd as he pass'd, 
 No longer could endure his demi-fast. 
 Plung'd in a shop, he seizes on a book, 
 A Cyrus ' (lucky in the first he took), 
 1 Artamenes, or the Grand Cyrus, written by Made- 
 
 5
 
 66 Book- Verse. 
 
 And aiming at the man (Boirude was he) 
 Launch'd at his head the chaste enormity. 
 Boirude evaded, graz'd in cheek alone, 
 But Sidrac's stomach felt it with a groan. 
 Punch'd by the dire Artamenes, he fell 
 At the Dean's feet, and lay incapable. 
 His troop believe him dead, and with a start 
 Feel their own stomachs for the wounded part. 
 But rage and fear alike now rouse their gall, 
 And twenty champions on the murd'rer fall. 
 The canons to support the shock, advance : 
 On every side ferments the direful dance ; 
 Then Discord gives a roar, loud as when meet 
 Two herds of rival graziers in a street. 
 The bookseller was out, the troop rush in, 
 Fast fly his quartos ; his octavos spin. 
 On Everard most they fall as thick as hail, 
 As when in spring the stony showers prevail, 
 And beat the blossoms till the season fail. 
 All arm them as they can : one gives a scotch 
 With Loz'e's Decree ; another, with the Watch : 
 This a French Tasso flings, a harmless wound, 
 And that the only Jonas ever bound. 
 The boy of Barbin vainly interferes, 
 And thrusts amidst the fray his generous ears : 
 Within, without, the books fly o'er and o'er, 
 Seek the dipp'd heads, and thump the dusty floor, 
 And strew the wondering platform at the door. 
 
 moiselle Scuderi. The books mentioned in this battle 
 are either obsolete French romances, or sorry pro- 
 ductions of the author's contemporaries.
 
 The Battle of the Books. 67 
 
 Here, with Guarini, Terence lies : and there 
 
 Jostles with Xenophon the fop La Serre. 
 
 Oh what unheard-of books, what great unknowns, 
 
 Quitted that day their dusty garrisons ! 
 
 You, Almerinde and Simander, mighty twins, 
 
 Were there, tremendous in your ancient skins : 
 
 And you, most hidden Caloander, saw 
 
 The light for once, drawn forth by Gaillerbois. 
 
 Doubtful of blood, each handles his brain-pan : 
 
 On every chair there lies a clergyman. 
 
 A critical Le Vayer hits Giraut 
 
 Just where a reader yawns, and lays him low. 
 
 Marin, who thought himself translator-proof, 
 
 On his right shoulder feels a dire Brebeuf. 
 
 The weary pang pervades his arm ; he frowns 
 
 And damns the Lucan dear to country towns 
 
 Poor Dodillon, with senses render'd thick 
 
 By a Pinchene in quarto, rises sick ; 
 
 Then walks away. Him scorn'd in vain Garagne. 
 
 Smitten in forehead by a Charlemagne : 
 
 O wonderful effect of sacred verse ! 
 
 The warrior slumbers where he meant to curse. 
 
 Great glory with a Clelia Bloc obtain'd ; 
 
 Ten times he threw it, and ten times regain'd. 
 
 But nought, Fabri, withstood thy bulky Mars, 
 
 Thou canon, nurs'd in all the church's wars. 
 
 Big was Fabri, big bon'd, a large divine ; 
 
 No water knew his elemental wine. 
 
 By him both Gronde and Grinde were overthrown, 
 
 And tenor Grosse, and Gruffe the bary-tone,
 
 68 Book- Verse. 
 
 And Gingol, bad except in easy parts, 
 
 And Gigne, whose alto touched the ladies' hearts. 
 
 At last the Singers, turning one and all, 
 
 Fly to regain the loop-holes of the Hall ; 
 
 So fly from a grey wolf, with sudden sweep, 
 
 The bleating terrors of a flock of sheep ; 
 
 Or thus, o'erborne by the Pelidean powers, 
 
 The Trojans turning sought their windy towers ; 
 
 Brontin beheld, and thus address'd Boirude : 
 
 " Illustrious carrier of the sacred wood, 
 
 Thou, who one step did'st never yet give way, 
 
 Huge as the burthen was, and hot the day ; 
 
 Say, shall we look on this inglorious scene, 
 
 And bear a Canon conquering a Dean ? 
 
 And shall our children's children have it said, 
 
 We stain'd the glory of the rochet's red ? 
 
 Ah, no ; disabled though I thus recline, 
 
 A carcase still, and a Quinaut, are mine ; 
 
 Accept the covert of my bulk, and aim 
 
 A blow may crown thee with a David's fame." 
 
 He said and tended him a gentle book ; 
 
 With ardour in his eyes the Sexton took, 
 
 Then lurk'd, then aim'd, and right between the 
 
 eyes, 
 
 Hit the great athlete, to his dumb surprise. 
 O feeble stroke ! O bullet, not of lead ! 
 The book, like butter, dumps against his head. 
 With scorn the Canon chafed : " Now mark," said 
 
 he, 
 "Ye secret couple, base and cowardly,
 
 The Battle of the Books. 69 
 
 See if this arm consents against the foe 
 
 To launch a book, that softens in the blow." 
 
 He said, and on an old Infortiat seiz'd, 
 
 In distant ages much by lawyers greas'd, 
 
 A huge black-letter mass, whose mighty hoards 
 
 More mighty look'd bound in two ponderous 
 
 boards. 
 
 Half sides of old black parchment wooed the grasp, 
 And from three nails there hung the remnant of a 
 
 clasp. 
 
 To heave it on its shelf, among the I's, 
 Would take three students of the common size. 
 The Canon, nathless, rais'd it to his head, 
 And on the pair, now crouching and half dead, 
 Sent with both hands the wooden thunder down : 
 Groan the two warriors, clashing in the crown, 
 And murder'd and undone with oak and nails, 
 Forth from the platform roll, and seek the guttery 
 
 vales. 
 
 The Dean, astonish'd at a fall so dire, 
 
 Utters a cry as when the punch'd expire. 
 
 He curses in his heart all devilish broils, 
 
 And making awful room, six steps recoils. 
 
 Not long : for now all eyes encountering his 
 
 To see how Deans endure calamities, 
 
 Like a chief he makes no further stand, 
 
 But drawing from his cloak his good right hand, 
 
 And stretching meek the sacred fingers twain, 
 
 Goes blessing all around him, might and main. 
 
 He knows full well, not only that the foe
 
 7O Book- Verse. 
 
 Once smitten thus, can neither stand nor go, 
 
 But that the public sense of their defeat 
 
 Must leave him lord, in church as well as street. 
 
 The crowd already on his side he sees ; 
 
 The cry is fierce, " Profane ones, on your knees " 
 
 The Chanter, who beheld the stroke from far, 
 
 In vain seeks courage for a sacred war : 
 
 His heart abandons him ; he yields, he flies ; 
 
 His soldiers follow with bewilder'd eyes : 
 
 All fly, all fear, but none escape the pain ; 
 
 The conq'ring fingers follow and detain. 
 
 Everard alone, upon a book employ'd, 
 
 Had hoped the sacred insult to avoid ; 
 
 But the wise chief, keeping a side-long eye, 
 
 And feigning to the right to pass him by, 
 
 Suddenly turn'd, and facing him in van, 
 
 Beyond redemption bless'd th' unhappy man. 
 
 The man, confounded with the mortal stroke, 
 
 From his long vision of rebellion woke, 
 
 Fell on his knees in penitential wise, 
 
 And gave decorum what he owed the skies. 
 
 Home trod the Dean, victorious, and ordain'd 
 The resurrection of the Desk regain'd : 
 While the vain Chapter, with its fallen crest, 
 Slunk to its several musings, lost and blesfd. 
 
 TRANSLATED BY LEIGH HUNT.
 
 SOME VERSES, WRITTEN IN SEPTEMBER, 
 1676. 
 
 (PRESENTING A BOOK TO COSMELIA.) 
 
 GO, humble gift, go to that matchless saint, 
 Of whom thou only wast a copy meant : 
 And all, that's read in thee, more richly find 
 Compris'd in the fair volume of her mind ; 
 That living system, where are fully writ 
 All those high morals, which in books we meet : 
 Easy, as in soft air, there writ they are, 
 Yet firm, as if in brass they graven were. 
 
 * * * # * 
 
 JOHN OLDHAM, Works, 1684. 
 
 VERSES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S IVORY 
 TABLE-BOOK. 
 
 PERUSE my leaves thro' ev'ry part, 
 And think thou seest my owner's heart 
 Scrawl'd o'er with trifles thus, and quite, 
 As hard, as senseless, and as light ; 
 Expos'd to ev'ry coxcomb's eyes, 
 But hid with caution from the wise. 
 Here you may read, Dear charming saint, 
 Beneath, A new receipt for paint : 
 Here in beau-spelling, Tru tel deth ; 
 There in her own, Far an el breth : 
 Here, Lovely nymph, pronounce my doom : 
 There, A safe way to use perfume :
 
 72 Book- Verse. 
 
 Here a page fill'd with billetdoux : 
 On t'other side, Laid out for shoes ; 
 Madam, I die without your grace ; 
 Item, for half a yard of lace, 
 Who that had wit would place it here, 
 For ev'ry peeping fop to jeer ? 
 In pow'r of spittle, and a clout, 
 Whene'er he please, to blot it out ; 
 And then to heighten the disgrace, 
 Clap his own nonsense in the place. 
 Whoever expects to hold his part 
 In such a book, and such a heart, 
 If he be wealthy and a fool, 
 Is in all points the fittest tool ; 
 Of whom it may be justly said, 
 He's a gold pencil tipp'd with lead. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT, 1706. 
 
 fe> 
 
 f 
 
 A BOOKWORM'S CONTENT. 1 
 
 WHILE you converse with lords and dukes, 
 I have their betters here my books : 
 Fixed in an elbow chair at ease 
 I choose my companions as I please. 
 I'd rather have one single shelf 
 Than all my friends, except yourself ; 
 For after all that can be said 
 Our best acquaintance are the dead. 
 
 THOMAS SHERIDAN, D.D. 
 1 Addressed to Dean Swift, then in London on a visit.
 
 73 
 
 VERSES TO BE PREFIXED BEFORE 
 BERNARD LINTOT'S NEW MISCELLANY.* 
 
 SOME Colinseus praise, some Bleau, 
 Others account them but so so ; 
 Some Plan tin to the rest prefer, 
 And some esteem old Elzevir ; 
 Others with Aldus would besot us ; 
 
 I, for my part, admire Lintotus. 
 
 His character's beyond compare, 
 
 Like his own person, large and fair. 
 
 They print their names in letters small, 
 
 But LINTOT stands in capital : 
 
 Author and he with equal grace 
 
 Appear, and stare you in the face. 
 
 Stephens prints Heathen Greek, 'tis said, 
 
 Which some can't construe, some can't read j 
 
 But all that comes from Lintot's hand, 
 
 Ev'n Rawlinson might understand. 
 
 Oft in an Aldus, or a Plantin, 
 
 A page is blotted, or leaf wanting : 
 
 Of Lintot's books this can't be said, 
 
 All fair, and not so much as read. 
 
 Their copy cost 'em not a penny 
 
 To Homer, Virgil, or to any ; 
 
 They ne'er gave sixpence for two lines 
 
 To them, their heirs, or their assigns : 
 
 But Lintot is at vast expense, 
 
 And pays prodigious dear for sense. 
 
 Their books are useful but to few,
 
 74 Book- Verse. 
 
 A scholar, or a wit or two ; 
 Lintot's for gen'ral use are fit. 
 
 A. POPE, 1712. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY WITH THE WORKS 
 OF VOITURE.* 
 
 IN these gay thoughts the loves and graces shine, 
 And all the writer lives in ev'ry line ; 
 His easie art may happy nature seem, 
 Trifles themselves are elegant in him. 
 Sure to charm all was his peculiar fate, 
 Who without flatt'ry pleas'd the fair and great ; 
 Still with esteem no less convers'd than read ; 
 With wit well-natur'd, and with books well-bred ; 
 His heart, his mistress and his friend did share, 
 His time, the Muse, the witty and the fair. 
 ***** 
 
 Now crown'd with myrtle, on th' Elysian coast, 
 Amidst those lovers, joys his gentle ghost, 
 Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view, 
 And finds a fairer Ramboiiillet in you. 
 The brightest eyes of France inspir'd his Muse, 
 The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse, 
 And dead as living, 'tis our author's pride, 
 Still to charm those who charm the world beside. 
 
 A. POPE, 1712. 
 
 r
 
 75 
 
 ON A MISCELLANY OF POEMS.* 
 
 (TO BERNARD LINTOT.) 
 
 Ipsa varietate tentamus ejficere ut alia aliis ; qua- 
 darn fortasse omnibus placeant. PLIN., Epist. 
 
 A S when some skilful cook, to please each guest, 
 jL\. Would in one mixture comprehend a feast, 
 With due proportion and judicious care 
 He fills his dish with diff ' rent sorts of fare, 
 Fishes and fowl cleliciously unite, 
 To feast at once the taste, the smell, and sight. 
 
 So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be 
 Compounded of all kinds of poetry ; 
 The Muses' Olio, which all tastes may fit, 
 And treat each reader with his darling wit. 
 
 Wouldst thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame, 
 
 And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name, 
 
 Let all the Muses in the piece conspire, 
 
 The lyrick bard must strike th' harmonious lyre ; 
 
 Heroick strains must here and there be found, 
 
 And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound ; 
 
 Let elegy in moving numbers flow, 
 
 And fill some pages with melodious woe ; 
 
 Let not your am'rous songs too num'rous prove, 
 
 Nor glut thy reader with abundant love ; 
 
 Satyr must interfere, whose pointed rage 
 
 May lash the madness of a vicious age ; 
 
 Satyr, the Muse that never fails to hit, 
 
 For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
 
 76 Book- Verse. 
 
 Tire not our patience with Pindarick lays, 
 Those swell the piece, but very rarely please : 
 Let short-breath'd epigram its force confine, 
 And strike at follies in a single line. 
 Translations should throughout the work be sown. 
 And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own ; 
 Horace in useful numbers should be sung, 
 And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue ; 
 Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain, 
 And at her door in melting notes complain : 
 His tender accents pitying virgins move, 
 And charm the list'ning ear with tales of love. 
 Let every classick in the volume shine, 
 And each contribute to thy great design : 
 Through various subjects let the reader range, 
 And raise his fancy with a grateful change ; 
 Variety's the source of joy below, 
 From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow. 
 In books and love, the mind one end pursues, 
 And only change th' expiring flame renews. 
 Where Buckingham will condescend to give, 
 That honour'd piece to distant times must live ; 
 When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings, 
 The little Loves rejoyce, and clap their wings 
 Anacreon lives, they cry, th' harmonious swain 
 Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain, 
 : Tis he our lost Anacreon lives again. 
 But when th' illustrious poet soars above 
 The sportive revels of the God of love, 
 Like Maro's Muse he takes a loftier flight, 
 And towres beyond the wond'ring Cupid's sight.
 
 On a Miscellany of Poems. 77 
 
 If thou wouldst have thy volume stand the test, 
 And of all others be reputed best, 
 Let Congreve teach the list'ning groves to mourn, 
 As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn. 
 
 Let Prior's Muse with soft'ning accents move, 
 
 Soft as the strains of constant Emma's love : 
 
 Or let his fancy chuse some jovial theme, 
 
 As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream ; 
 
 Prior th' admiring reader entertains, 
 
 With Chaucer's humour, and with Spencer's strains. 
 
 Waller in Granville lives ; when Mira sings 
 With Waller's hand he strikes the sounding strings, 
 With sprightly turns his noble genius shines, 
 And manly sense adorns his easie lines. 
 
 On Addison's sweet lays attention waits, 
 
 And silence guards the place while he repeats ; 
 
 His Muse alike on ev'ry subject charms, 
 
 Whether she paints the God of love, or arms : 
 
 In him, pathetick Ovid sings again, 
 
 And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign. 
 
 Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song, 
 Sense flows in easie numbers from his tongue ; 
 Great Phoebus in his learned son we see, 
 Alike in physick, as in poetry. 
 
 When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure roves, 
 Amidst the plains, the murm'ring streams, and 
 groves,
 
 78 Book- Verse. 
 
 Attentive Eccho pleas'd to hear his songs, 
 Thro' the glad shade each warbling note prolongs ; 
 His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears, 
 Mis steady judgment far out-shoots his years, 
 And early in the youth the god appears. 
 
 From these successful bards collect thy strains, 
 And praise with profit shall reward thy pains : 
 Then, while calves- leather binding bears the sway, 
 And sheepskin to its sleeker gloss gives way ; 
 While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better 
 Than Pirate Hill's brown sheets, and scurvy letter ; 
 While print admirers careful Aldus chuse 
 Before John Morphew, or the weekly news : 
 So long shall live thy praise in books of fame, 
 And Tonson yield to Lintot's lofty name. 
 
 JOHN GAY, Miscellaneous Poems, 1714. 
 
 A MODERN LIBRARY. 
 
 TO please the eye, the highest space 
 A set of wooden volumes grace ; 
 Pure timber authors that contain 
 As much as some that boast a brain ; 
 That Alma Mater never view'd, 
 Without degrees to writers hew'd : 
 Yet solid thus just emblems show 
 Of the dull brotherhood below,
 
 A Modern Library. 79 
 
 Smiling their rivals to survey, 
 
 As great and real blocks as they. 
 
 Distinguish'd then in even rows, 
 
 Here shines the verse and there the Prose j 
 
 (For, though Britannia fairer looks 
 
 United, 'tis not so with books :) 
 
 The champions of each different art 
 
 Had stations all assigned apart, 
 
 Fearing the rival chiefs might be 
 
 For quarrels still, nor dead agree. 
 
 The schoolmen first in long array 
 
 Their bulky lumber round display ; 
 
 Seemed to lament their wretched doom, 
 
 And heave for more convenient room ; 
 
 While doctrine each of weight contains 
 
 To crack his shelves as well as brains ; 
 
 Since all with him were thought to dream, 
 
 That flagged before they rilled a ream : 
 
 His authors wisely taught to prize, 
 
 Not for their merit, but their size ; 
 
 No surer method ever found 
 
 Than buying writers by the pound ; 
 
 For Heaven must needs his breast inspire, 
 
 That scribbling fill'd each month a quire, 
 
 And claim'd a station on his shelves, 
 
 Who scorn'd each sot who fool'd in twelves. 
 
 ***** 
 
 [Extract from a poem of 1,500 lines preserved in vol. iiu 
 of Nichols's Miscellany Poems, where it is said to 
 be probably by Dr. W. King. It first appeared 
 in 1712, and has been also ascribed to Thomas 
 Newcomb.]
 
 8o Book- Verse. 
 
 TWO EPIGRAMS. 
 
 [When George I. sent a present of some books in 
 November 1715 to the University of Cambridge, he 
 sent at the same time a troop of horse to Oxford, 
 which gave rise to the following well-known 
 epigram from Dr. Trapp, smart in its way, but not 
 so clever as the answer from Sir William Browne.] 
 
 THE King observing with judicious eyes 
 The state of both his universities, 
 To one he sent a regiment : for why ? 
 That learned body wanted loyalty. 
 To th' other he sent books, as well discerning 
 How much that loyal body wanted learning. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 The King to Oxford sent his troop of horse, 
 For Tories own no argument but force ; 
 With equal care to Cambridge books he sent, 
 For Whigs allow no force but argument. 
 
 VERSES SENT TO MRS. T. B. WITH 
 HIS WORKS. 
 
 (BY AN AUTHOR.) 
 
 THIS book, which, like its author, you 
 By the bare outside only knew, 
 (Whatever was in either good, 
 Not look'd in, or, not understood)
 
 The Horn-Book. 81 
 
 Comes, as the writer did too long, 
 
 To be about you, right or wrong ; 
 
 Neglected on your chair to lie, 
 
 Nor raise a thought, nor draw an eye ; 
 
 In peevish fits to have you say, 
 
 "See there ! you're always in the way ! " 
 
 Or, if your slave you think to bless, 
 
 ' ' I like this colour, I profess ! 
 
 That red is charming all will hold, 
 
 I ever lov'd it next to gold." 
 
 Can book, or man, more praise obtain ? 
 
 What more could G ge or S te gain ?' 
 
 Sillier than G Id n could'st thou be, 
 Nay, did all J c b breathe in thee, 
 She keeps thee, book ! I'll lay my head. 
 What ! throw away a " Fool in red" : 
 No, trust the sex's sacred rule ; 
 The gaudy dress will save the Fool. 
 The Grove: a Collection of Original Poems, 1721. 
 
 THE HORN-BOOK. 
 (WRITTEN UNDER A FIT OF THE GOUT.) 
 
 Magni magna patrant, nos non nisi ludicra .... 
 Podagra hsec otia fecit. 
 
 HAIL ! ancient Book, most venerable code ! 
 Learning's first cradle, and its last abode !' 
 The huge, unnumber'd volumes which we see, 
 By lazy plagiaries are stol'n from thee. 
 
 6
 
 82 Book- Verse. 
 
 Yet future times, to thy sufficient store, 
 Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more. 
 
 Thee will I sing, in comely wainscoat bound, 
 And golden verge enclosing thee around ; 
 The faithful horn before, from age to age, 
 Preserving thy invaluable page ; 
 Behind, thy patron saint in armour shines, 
 With sword and lance, to guard thy sacred lives : 
 Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies 
 Transfix'd ; his blood thy scarlet cover dies ; 
 Th' instructive handle's at the bottom fix'd, 
 Lest wrangling critics should pervert the text. 
 
 Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt descend, 
 And liquorish learning to thy babes extend ; 
 Or sugar'd plane, o'erspread with beaten gold, 
 Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold ; 
 Thou still shalt be my song Apollo's choir 
 I scorn t' invoke ; Cadmus my verse inspire : 
 'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought 
 Of all the learning which has since been taught, 
 Soon made compleat ! for mortals ne'er shall know 
 More than contain'd of old the Christ-cross row ; 
 What masters dictate, or what doctors preach. 
 Wise matrons hence, e'en to our children teach : 
 But as the name of every plant and flower 
 (So common that each peasant knows its power) 
 Physicians in mysterious cant express, 
 T' amuse the patient, and enhance their fees ; 
 So from the letters of our native tongue, 
 Put in Greek scrawls, a mystery too is sprung,
 
 The Horn-Book. 83 
 
 Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made, 
 And artful men strike out a gainful trade ; 
 Strange characters adorn the learned gate, 
 And heedless youth catch at the shining bait ; 
 The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare, 
 And Tau's, and Delta's, 1 make their mothers stare; 
 Th' uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear, 
 And what's uncommon never cost's too dear. 
 Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the same, 
 Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame. 
 
 But how shall I thy endless virtues tell, 
 In which thou durst all other books excell ? 
 No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil, 
 Nor crooked dogs-ears thy smooth corners spoil ; 
 In idle pages no errata stand, 
 To tell the blunders of the printer's hand : 
 No fulsome dedication here is writ, 
 Nor flattering verse, to praise the author's wit : 
 The margin with no tedious notes is vex'd, 
 Nor various readings to confound the text : 
 All parties in thy literal sense agree, 
 Thou perfect centre of concordancy ! 
 Search we the records of an ancient date, 
 Or read what modern histories relate, 
 They all proclaim what wonders have been done 
 By the plain letters taken as they run : 
 " Too high the floods of passion us'd to roll, 
 And rend the Roman youth's impatient soul ; 
 
 1 The Greek letters T, A.
 
 84 Book- Verse. 
 
 His hasty anger furnish'd scenes of blood, 
 And frequent deaths of worthy men ensued : 
 In vain were all the weaker methods try'd, 
 None could suffice to stem the furious tide, 
 Thy sacred line he did but once repeat, 
 And laid the storm, and cool'd the raging heat." 2 
 
 Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer 
 Departing souls, and sooth the dying ear. 
 An aged peasant, on his latest bed, 
 Wish'd for a friend some godly book to read ; 
 The pious grandson thy known handle takes, 
 And (eyes lift up) this savoury lecture makes : 
 " Great A," he gravely read : the important sound 
 The empty walls and hollow roof rebound : 
 Th' expiring ancient rear'd his drooping head, 
 And thank'd his stars that Hodge had learn'd to 
 
 read. 
 " Great B," the younker bawls ; O heavenly 
 
 breath ! 
 
 What ghostly comforts in the hour of death ! 
 What hopes I feel ! " Great C," pronounc'd the 
 
 boy ; 
 The grandsire dies with extasy of joy. 
 
 Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds, 
 Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds. 
 Of Essex hundreds Fame gives this report, 
 But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport. 
 
 3 The advice given to Augustus, by Athenodorus, 
 the Stoic philosopher.
 
 The Horn-Book. 85 
 
 Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite un- 
 known, 
 
 Though few the extent of thy vast empire own. 
 
 Whatever wonders magic spells can do 
 
 On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below ; 
 
 What words profound and dark wise Mahomet 
 spoke, 
 
 When his old cow an angel's figure took ; 
 
 What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew, 
 
 Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue, 
 
 mighty Book, are all contain'd in you ! 
 All human arts, and every science meet, 
 Within the limits of thy single sheet : 
 
 From thy vast root all learning's branches grow, 
 And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow. 
 And, lo ! while thus thy wonders I indite, 
 Inspir'd I feel the power of which I write ; 
 The gentler gout his former rage forgets, 
 Less frequent now, and less severe the fits : 
 Loose grow the chains which bound my useless 
 
 feet; 
 
 Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat ; 
 Surprising strength comes every moment on, 
 
 1 stand, I step, I walk, and now I run. 
 
 Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop, 
 And at thy handle, 3 hang my crutches up. 
 
 THOMAS TICKELL. 
 3 Votiva Tabula. HOR.
 
 86 Book- Verse. 
 
 THE BOOKWORM.* 
 
 COME hither, Boy ! we'll hunt to-day 
 The Bookworm, ravening beast of 
 
 prey, 
 
 Produc'd by parent Earth, at odds 
 (As Fame reports it) with the gods. 
 Him frantic hunger wildly drives 
 Against a thousand authors' lives : 
 Thro' all the fields of wit he flies ; 
 Dreadful his head with clust'ring eyes, 
 With horns without, and tusks within, 
 And scales to serve him for a skin. 
 Observe him nearly, lest he climb 
 To wound the bards of ancient time, 
 Or down the vale of Fancy go 
 To tear some modern wretch below ; 
 On ev'ry corner fix thine eye, 
 Or ten to one he slips thee by. 
 
 See where his teeth a passage eat ; 
 We'll rouse him from the deep retreat. 
 But who the shelter's forc'd to give ? 
 'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live ! 
 P'rom leaf to leaf, from song to song, 
 He draws the tadpole form along, 
 He mounts the gilded edge before, 
 He's up, he scuds the cover o'er ; 
 He turns, he doubles ; there he past, 
 And here we have him caught at last. 
 
 Insatiate Brute ! whose teeth abuse 
 The sweetest servants of the Muse.
 
 The Bookworm, 87 
 
 (Nay, never offer to deny, 
 I took thee in the fact to fly. ) 
 His roses nipt in ev'ry page, 
 My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage ; 
 By thee my Ovid wounded lies ; 
 By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies ; 
 Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd 
 The work of Love in Biddy Floyd ; 
 They rent Belinda's locks away, 
 And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. 
 For all, for ev'ry single deed, 
 Relentless Justice bids thee bleed. 
 Then fall a victim to the Nine, 
 Myself the priest, my desk the shrine. 
 
 Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso, near, 
 To pile a sacred altar here. 
 Hold, Boy ! thy hand outruns thy wit, 
 You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ ; 
 You reach'd me Phillips' rustic strain ; 
 Pray take your mortal bards again. 
 
 Come, bind the victim There he 
 
 lies, 
 
 And here between his num'rous eyes 
 This venerable dust I lay, 
 From manuscripts just swept away. 
 
 The goblet in my hand I take, 
 (For the libation's yet to make) 
 A health to Poets ! all their days 
 May they have bread as well as praise ; 
 Sense may they seek, and less engage 
 In papers fill'd with party-rage ;
 
 88 Book- Verse. 
 
 But if their riches spoil their vein, 
 Ye Muses ! make them poor again. 
 
 Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, 
 With which my tuneful pens are made. 
 I strike the scales that arm thee round, 
 And twice and thrice I print the wound ; 
 The sacred altar flotes with red, 
 And now he dies, and now he's dead. 
 
 How like the son of Jove I stand, 
 This hydra stretch'd beneath my hand ! 
 Lay bare the monster's entrails here, 
 To see what dangers threat the year : 
 Ye Gods ! what Sonnets on a wench ! 
 What lean Translations out of French ! 
 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, 
 
 S prints before the months go 
 
 round. 
 
 But hold, before I close the scene, 
 The sacred altar should be clean. 
 Oh ! had I Shadwell's second bays, 
 Or, Tate ! thy pert and humble lays, 
 (Ye Pair ! forgive me when I vow 
 I never miss'd your Works till now) 
 I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, 
 (That only way you please the Nine) 
 But since I chance to want these two, 
 I'll make the songs of D'Urfey do. 
 
 Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin 
 I hang the scales that brac'd it in ; 
 I hang my studious morning gown, 
 And write my own inscription down.
 
 To the Memory of Lady Gethin. 89 
 
 "This trophy, from the Python won, 
 This robe, in which the deed was done, 
 These Parnell, glorying in the feat, 
 Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. 
 Here Ignorance and Hunger found 
 Large realms of wit to ravage round ; 
 Here Ignorance and Hunger fell ; 
 Two foes in one I sent to hell. 
 Ye Poets ! who my labours see, 
 Come share the triumph all with me : 
 Ye Critics ! born to vex the Muse, 
 Go mourn the grand ally you lose." 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL. 
 
 VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF GRACE 
 LADY GETHIN. 
 
 (OCCASIONED BY READING HER BOOK " RELIQUL* 
 GETHINIAN^E," 1699.) 
 
 AFTER a painful life in study spent, 
 The learn'd themselves their ignorance 
 lament ; 
 
 And aged men, whose lives exceed the space 
 Which seems the bound prescrib'd to mortal race, 
 With hoary heads their short experience grieve, 
 As doom'd to die before they've learn'd to live : 
 So hard it is true knowledge to attain, 
 So frail is life, and fruitless human pain !
 
 9O Book- Verse. 
 
 Whoe'er on this reflects, and then beholds, 
 
 With strict attention, what this Book unfolds, 
 
 With admiration struck, shall question who 
 
 So very long could live so much to know ? 
 
 For so complete the finish'd piece appears, 
 
 That learning seems combin'd with length of years, 
 
 And both improv'd by purest wit, to reach 
 
 At all that study or that time can teach. 
 
 But to what height must his amazement rise 
 
 When having read the Work, he turns his eyes 
 
 Again to view the foremost op'ning page, 
 
 And there the beauty, sex, and tender age, 
 
 Of her beholds, in whose pure mind arose 
 
 Th' ethereal source from whence this current flows 1 
 
 When prodigies appear our reason fails, 
 
 And superstition o'er philosophy prevails. 
 
 Some heav'nly minister we straight conclude, 
 
 Some angel-mind with female form indu'd, 
 
 To make a short abode on earth, was sent, 
 
 (Where no perfection can be permanent) 
 
 And having left her bright example here, 
 
 Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear. 
 
 Whether around the throne eternal hymns 
 
 She sings, amid the choir of seraphims, 
 
 Or some refulgent star informs and guides, 
 
 Where she, the bless'd intelligence, presides, 
 
 Is not for us to know who here remain, 
 
 For 'twere as impious to inquire as vain ; 
 
 And all we ought or can, in this dark state, 
 
 Is what we have admir'd to imitate. 
 
 THOMAS PARNELL.
 
 AN IGNORANT BOOK-COLLECTOR. 
 
 WITH what, O Codrus ! is thy fancy smit ? 
 The flower of learning, and the bloom of 
 wit. 
 
 Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, 
 And Epictetus is a perfect beau. 
 How fit for thee bound up in crimson too, 
 Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view ? 
 Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard 
 That Science should be purchased by the yard, 
 
 And T n turn'd upholsterer, send home 
 
 The gilded leather to fit up thy room. 
 
 If not to some peculiar end assign'd, 
 Study's the specious trifling of the mind ; 
 Or is at best a secondary aim, 
 A chase for sport alone, not game : 
 If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, 
 But love the thicket where the quarry lies. 
 
 On buying books Lorenzo long was bent, 
 But found at length that it reduced his rent. 
 His farms were flown ; when lo ! a sale comes on, 
 A choice collection ! What is to be done ? 
 He sells his last ; for he the whole will buy ; 
 Sells ev'n his house, nay wants whereon to lie : 
 So high the generous ardour of the man 
 For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. 
 When terms were drawn, and brought him by the 
 
 clerk, 
 Lorenzo sign'd the bargain with his mark.
 
 92 Book- Verse. 
 
 Unlearned men of books assume the care, 
 As Eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. 
 
 Not in his authors' liveries alone 
 Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown? 
 Editions various, at high prices bought, 
 Inform the world what Codrus would be thought ; 
 And, to his cost, another must succeed, 
 To pay a sage, who says that he can read, 
 Who titles knows, and Indexes has seen ; 
 
 But leaves to what lies between, 
 
 Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense, 
 And humbly is contented with the sense. 
 
 EDWARD YOUNG, The Love of Fame, 1725. 
 
 r 
 
 WRITTEN ON ONE OF THE IVORY- 
 LEAVES OF A LADY'S POCKET-BOOK. 
 
 HOW blest ! could I in Cloe's heart, 
 As in this book, inscribe my name ; 
 But wretched still, if there as here, 
 Another fool might do the same. 
 Miscellaneous Poems (collected by J. Ralph), 1729. 
 
 r 
 
 THE PRAISE OF ANTIQUARIES. 
 
 SAGELY resolved to swell each bulky piece 
 With venerable toys from Rome and Greece 
 How oft, in Homer, Paris curl'd his hair ; 
 If Aristotle's cap were round or square ;
 
 To his Book. 93 
 
 If in the cave where Dido first was sped, 
 
 To Tyre she turn'd her heels, to Troy her head 
 
 Turn Caxton, Wynkyn, each old Goth and Hun, 
 
 To rectify the reading of a pun, 
 
 There nicely trifling, accurately dull, 
 
 How one may toil, and toil to be a fool. 
 
 DAVID MALLET. 
 
 r 
 
 TO HIS BOOK.* 
 
 OH ! thou my first delight, immortal page, 
 Child of my soul, ah ! how shall thou repay 
 My fond regards, and bless the future age, 
 If yet unseen thy latent charms decay ? 
 
 Does critic Rome thy cautious breast control ? 
 
 Dismiss thy fears ; the shafts of envy dare ; 
 Go forth, unanxious ; and from pole to pole, 
 
 Swift as the winds, thy master's glory bear. 
 
 See where the red right hand of thundering Jove 
 Hurls the fierce furies to the shades below ! 
 
 He be invoked, the first of gods above, 
 
 And in our strains, his praise perennial flow. 
 
 r
 
 94 Book- Verse. 
 
 ADDRESS TO MY BOOK. 
 
 (AN ELEGY.) 
 
 of my love, go forth, and try thy fate ; 
 _^ Few are thy friends, and manifold thy foes ! 
 Whether or long or short will be thy date, 
 Futurity's dark volume only knows. 
 
 Much criticism, alas ! will be thy lot ! 
 
 Severe thy ordeal, I am sore afraid ! 
 Some judges will condemn, and others not : 
 
 Some call thy form substantial others, shade. 
 
 Yes, child, by multitudes wilt thou be tried ! 
 
 Wise men, and fools, thy merits will examine : 
 Those, through much prudence may thy virtues 
 
 hide ; 
 
 These, through vile rancour, or the dread of 
 famine. 
 
 Prov'd will it be indeed (to make thee shrink) 
 What metal Nature in thy mass did knead : 
 
 A melting ' process will be us'd, I think 
 That is to say, large quantities of lead. 
 
 By some indeed will nitre's fuming spirit 
 Be o'er thy form, so sweet, so tender, thrown ; 
 
 Perchance a master hand may try thy merit ; 
 Perchance an imp by folly only known. 
 
 1 Called eliquation.
 
 Address to my Book. 95 
 
 Now, now I fancy thee a timid hare, 
 
 Started for beagles, hounds, and curs, to chase ! 
 A mongrel dog may snap thee up unfair ; 
 
 For spite and hunger have but little grace. 
 
 Long are thy legs (I know), and stout for running ; 
 
 And many a trick hast thou within thy brain ; 
 But guns and greyhounds are too much for cunning, 
 
 Join'd to the rav'nous pack of Thomas Paine ! 
 
 And now a lamb ! what devils now-a-days 
 The butch'ring shop of criticism employs ! 
 
 Each beardless villain now cuts up and flays ! 
 A gang of wanton, brutal, 'prentice boys ! 
 
 Ah me ! how hard to reach the dome of Fame ! 
 
 Knock'd down before she gets half-way, poor 
 
 Muse ! 
 For many a lout that cannot gain a name 
 
 (Rebus and riddle maker) now reviews. 
 
 Poor jealous eunuchs in the land of taste, 
 Too weak to reap a harvest of fair praise ; 
 
 Malicious, lo, they lay the region waste ; 
 
 Fire all they can, and triumph o'er the blaze ! 
 
 Too oft with talents blest, the cruel few 
 
 Fix on poor Merit's throat, to stop her breath : 
 
 How like the beauteous fruit, that turns to dew 
 The life ambrosial, into drops of death ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 PETER PINDAR [J. WOLCOTT].
 
 g6 Book- Verse. 
 
 ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANS- 
 FIELD'S LIBRARY, TOGETHER WITH 
 HIS MSS. 
 
 (BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780.) 
 
 SO then the Vandals of our isle, 
 Sworn foes to sense and law, 
 Have burnt to dust a nobler pile 
 Than ever Roman saw ! 
 
 And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, 
 
 And many a treasure more, 
 The well-judged purchase and the gift 
 
 That graced his lettered store. 
 
 Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, 
 
 The loss was his alone ; 
 But ages yet to come shall mourn 
 
 The burning of his own. 
 
 W. COWPER 
 
 ON THE SAME. 
 
 WHEN wit and genius meet their doom 
 In all-devouring flame, 
 They tell us of the fate of Rome, 
 And bid us fear the same.
 
 T/ie Library. 97 
 
 O'er Murray's loss the Muses wept, 
 
 They felt the rude alarm, 
 Yet bless'd the guardian care, that kept 
 
 His sacred head from harm. 
 
 There memory, like the bee, that's fed 
 
 From Flora's balmy store, 
 The quintessence of all he read 
 
 Had treasured up before. 
 
 The lawless herd, with fury blind, 
 
 Have done him cruel wrong ; 
 The flowers are gone but still we find 
 
 The honey on his tongue. 
 
 W. COWPER. 
 
 THE LIBRARY.* 
 
 WHEN the sad soul, by care and grief 
 oppressed, 
 
 Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest ^ 
 When every object that appears in view 
 Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too ; 
 Where shall affliction from itself retire ? 
 Where fade away and placidly expire ? 
 Alas ! we fly to silent scenes in vain ; 
 Care blasts the honours of the flowery plain : 
 Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, 
 Sighs through the grove, and murmurs in the 
 stream ; 
 
 7
 
 98 Book- Verse. 
 
 P'or when the soul is labouring in despair, 
 
 In vain the body breathes a purer air : 
 
 No storm-tost sailor sighs for slumbering seas 
 
 He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze ; 
 
 On the smooth mirror of the deep resides 
 
 Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides 
 
 The ghost of every former danger glides. 
 
 Thus, in the calms of life, we only see 
 
 A steadier image of our misery ; 
 
 But lively gales and gently clouded skies 
 
 Disperse the sad reflections as they rise ; 
 
 And busy thoughts and little cares avail 
 
 To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail. 
 
 When the dull thought, by no designs employed, 
 
 Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed, 
 
 We bleed anew in every former grief, 
 
 And joys departed furnish no relief. 
 
 Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art, 
 Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart : 
 The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, 
 And anxious searches for congenial cares ; 
 Those lenient cares, which with our own combined, 
 By mixed sensations ease th' afflicted mind, 
 And steal our grief away, and leave their own 
 
 behind ; 
 
 A lighter grief ! which feeling hearts endure 
 Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. 
 
 But what strange art, what magic can dispose 
 The troubled mind to change its native woes ? 
 Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see 
 Others more wretched, more undone than we ?
 
 The Library. 99 
 
 This BOOKS can do ; nor this alone ; they give 
 New views to life, and teach us how to live ; 
 They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, 
 Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise : 
 Their aid they yield to all : they never shun 
 The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone : 
 Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, 
 They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd ; 
 Nor tell to various people various things, 
 But show to subjects what they show to kings. 
 
 Come, Child of Care ! to make thy soul serene, 
 Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene ; 
 Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold, 
 The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold ! 
 Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find, 
 And mental physic the diseased in mind ; 
 See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage; 
 See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage ; 
 Here alteratives, by slow degrees control 
 The chronic habits of the sickly soul ; 
 And round the heart, and o'er the aching head, 
 Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. 
 Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude, 
 And view composed this silent multitude : 
 Silent they are but though deprived of sound, 
 Here all the living languages abound ; 
 Here all that live no more ; preserved they lie, 
 In tombs that open to the curious eye. 
 
 Blest be the gracious Power, who taught man- 
 kind 
 To stamp a lasting image of the mind !
 
 ioo Book-Verse. 
 
 Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing, 
 Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring ; 
 But Man alone has skill and power to send 
 The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend ; 
 'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise 
 Ages remote, and nations yet to rise. 
 
 In sweet repose, when Labour's children sleep, 
 When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep, 
 When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast, 
 And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest, 
 Why then denies the studious man to share 
 Man's common good, who feels his common care ? 
 
 Because the hope is his, that bids him fly 
 Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy ; 
 That after-ages may repeat his praise, 
 And fame's fair meed be his, for length of days. 
 Delightful prospect ! when we leave behind 
 A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind ! 
 Which, born and nursed through many an anxious 
 
 day, 
 Shall all our labour, all our care repay. 
 
 Yet all are not these births of noble kind, 
 Not all the children of a vigorous mind ; 
 But where the wisest should alone preside, 
 The weak would rule us, and the blind would 
 
 guide ; 
 
 Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show 
 The poor and troubled source from which they 
 
 flow ; 
 
 Where most he triumphs we his wants perceive, 
 And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
 
 The Library. 101 
 
 But though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves 
 This seat serene, anfl virtue's -self approves,:-^ 
 Here come the gritye,d/ a* change, of thought to 
 find; -"' 
 
 The curious here to ft^d 4 crt\'ing rrand';"; ', \ 
 Here the devout their peaceful temple choose 
 And here the poet meets his favouring Muse. 
 
 With awe, around these silent walks I tread ; 
 These are the lasting mansions of the dead : 
 " The dead ! " methinks a thousand tongues reply ; 
 " These are the tombs of such as cannot die ! 
 Crowned with eternal fame, they sit sublime, 
 And laugh at all the little strife of time." 
 
 Hail, then, immortals ! ye who shine above, 
 Each, in his sphere, the literary Jove ; 
 And ye the common people of these skies, 
 A humbler crowd of nameless deities ; 
 Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind 
 Through History's mazes, and the turnings find ; 
 Or, whether led by Science, ye retire, 
 Lost and bewildered in the vast desire ; 
 Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers, 
 And crowns your placid brows with living flowers ! 
 Or godlike Wisdom teaches you to show 
 The noblest road to happiness below ; 
 Or men and manners prompt the easy page 
 To mark the flying follies of the age : 
 Whatever good ye boast, that good impart ; 
 Inform the head and rectify the heart. 
 
 Lo, all in silence, all in order stand, 
 And mighty folios, first, a lordly band ;
 
 IO2 Book-Verse, 
 
 Then quartos their well-ordered ranks maintain, 
 And- light octaves fill a spacious plain : 
 See yonder, ranged in /norc frequented rows, 
 A humbler, b.ar>d pf duodecimos ; . 
 VWiilfe/JUd^sringasli'.d.trifies; swell the scene, 
 Trie last new play and frittered magazine. 
 Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great, 
 In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state : 
 Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread, 
 Are much admired, and are but little read : 
 The commons next, a middle rank, are found ; 
 Professions fruitful pour their offspring round ; 
 Reasoners and wits are next their place allowed, 
 And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd. 
 
 First, let us view the form, the size, the dress ; 
 For these the manners, nay the mind, express : 
 That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid ; 
 Those ample clasps of solid metal made ; 
 The close-pressed leaves, unclosed for many an 
 
 age; 
 
 The dull red edging of the well-filled page ; 
 On the broad back the stubborn ridges rolled, 
 Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold ; 
 These all a sage and laboured work proclaim, 
 A painful candidate for lasting fame : 
 No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk 
 In the deep bosom of that weighty work ; 
 No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style, 
 Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile. 
 
 Hence, in these times, untouched the pages lie, 
 And slumber out their immortality :
 
 The Library. 103 
 
 They had their day, when, after all his toil, 
 His morning study, and his midnight oil, 
 At length an author's ONE great work appeared, 
 By patient hope, and length of days, endeared : 
 Expecting nations hailed it from the press ; 
 Poetic friends prefixed each kind address ; 
 Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift, 
 And ladies read the work they could not lift. 
 Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools, 
 Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules ; 
 From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she 
 
 goes 
 
 And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes. 
 For lo ! these favorites of the ancient mode 
 Lie all neglected like the Birthday Ode. 
 
 Ah ! needless now this weight of massy chain ; 
 Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain ; 
 No readers now invade their still retreat, 
 None try to steal them from their parent seat ; 
 Like ancient beauties, they may now discard 
 Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard. 
 
 Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by, 
 And rolled, o'er laboured works, th' attentive eye : 
 Page after page the much-enduring men 
 Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen : 
 Till, every former note and comment known, 
 They marked the spacious margin with their own ; 
 Minute corrections proved their studious care ; 
 The little index, pointing, told us where ; 
 And many an emendation showed the age 
 Looked far beyond the rubric title-page.
 
 IO4 Book- Verse, 
 
 Our nicer palates lighter labours seek, 
 Cloyed with a folio-Number once a week ; 
 Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down : 
 E'en light Voltaire is numbered through the town : 
 Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law, 
 From men of study, and from men of straw ; 
 Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times, 
 Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes : 
 But though to write be now a task of ease, 
 The task is hard by manly arts to please, 
 When all our weakness is exposed to view, 
 And half our judges are our rivals too. 
 
 Amid these works, on which the eager eye 
 Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by, 
 When all combined, their decent pomp display, 
 Where shall we first our early offering pay ? 
 
 To thee, DIVINITY ! to thee, the light 
 And guide of mortals, through their mental night ; 
 By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide ; 
 To bear with pain, and to contend with pride ; 
 When grieved, to pray ; when injured, to forgive ; 
 And with the world in charity to live. 
 
 Not truths like these inspired that numerous 
 
 race, 
 
 Whose pious labours fill this ample space ; 
 But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose, 
 Awaked to war the long-contending foes. 
 For dubious meanings, learned polemics strove, 
 And wars on faith prevented works of love ; 
 The brands of discord far around were hurled, 
 And holy wrath inflamed a sinful world :
 
 Tlte Library. 105 
 
 Dull though impatient, peevish though devout, 
 With wit disgusting, and despised without ; 
 Saints in design, in execution men, 
 Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen. 
 
 Methinks I see, and sicken at the sight, 
 Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight ; 
 Spirits who prompted every damning page, 
 With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage : 
 Lo ! how they stretch their gloomy wings around, 
 And lash with furious strokes the trembling 
 
 ground ! 
 They pray, they fight, they murder, and they 
 
 weep, 
 Wolves in their vengeance, in their manners 
 
 sheep ; 
 
 Too well they act the prophet's fatal part, 
 Denouncing evil with a zealous heart ; 
 And each, like Jonah, is displeased if God 
 Repent his anger, or withhold his rod. 
 
 But here the dormant fury rests unsought, 
 And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought ; 
 Here all the rage of controversy ends, 
 And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends : 
 An Athanasian here, in deep repose, 
 Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes ; 
 Socinians here with Calvinists abide, 
 And thin partitions angry chiefs divide ; 
 Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet, 
 And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet. 
 Great authors, for the church's glory fired, 
 Are for the church's peace to rest retired ;
 
 io6 Book-Verse. 
 
 And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race, 
 
 Lie " Crumbs of Comfort for the Babes of Grace." 
 
 Against her foes Religion well defends 
 Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends. 
 If learned, their pride, if weak, their zeal she 
 
 dreads, 
 And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest 
 
 heads. 
 
 But most she fears the controversial pen, 
 The holy strife of disputatious men ; 
 Who the blest Gospel's peaceful page explore. 
 Only to fight against its precepts more. 
 
 Near to these seats behold yon slender frames, 
 All closely filled and marked with modern names ; 
 Where no fair science ever shows her face, 
 Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace ; 
 There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng, 
 And stretch their widening wings ten thousand 
 
 strong ; 
 
 Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain ; 
 Some skirmish lightly, fly, and fight again ; 
 Coldly profane, and impiously gay, 
 Their end the same, though various in their way. 
 
 When first Religion came to bless the land, 
 Her friends were then a firm believing band ; 
 To doubt was then to plunge in guilt extreme, 
 And all was gospel that a monk could dream ; 
 Insulted Reason fled the grov'lling soul, 
 For Fear to guide, and visions to control : 
 But now, when Reason has assumed her throne, 
 She, in her turn, demands to reign alone ;
 
 The Library. 107 
 
 Rejecting all that lies beyond her view, 
 And, being judge, will be a witness too : 
 Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind, 
 To seek for truth, without a power to find : 
 Ah ! when will both in friendly beams unite, 
 And pour on erring man resistless light ? 
 
 Next to the seats, well stored with works divine, 
 An ample space, PHILOSOPHY ! is thine ; 
 Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light 
 We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right ; 
 Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay, 
 To the bright orbs of yon celestial way ! 
 'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace, 
 Which runs through all, connecting race with 
 
 race, 
 
 Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain, 
 Which thy inferior light pursues in vain : 
 
 How vice and virtue in the soul contend ; 
 How widely differ, yet how nearly blend ; 
 What various passions war on either part, 
 And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart : 
 How Fancy loves around the world to stray, 
 While Judgment slowly picks his sober way ; 
 The stores of memory, and the flights sublime 
 Of genius, bound by neither space nor time ; 
 All these divine Philosophy explores, 
 Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores. 
 
 From these, descending to the earth, she turns, 
 And matter, in its various forms, discerns ; 
 She parts the beamy light with skill profound, 
 Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound ;
 
 loS Book-Verse. 
 
 'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call, 
 And teach the fiery mischief where to fall. 
 
 Yet more her volumes teach on these we look 
 As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book : 
 Here, first described, the torpid earth appears, 
 And next, the vegetable robe it wears ; 
 Where flowery tribes, in valleys, fields, and groves, 
 Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves ; 
 Loves where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor 
 
 pain, 
 
 Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain ; 
 But as the green blood moves along the blade, 
 The bed of Flora on the branch is made ; 
 Where, without passion love instinctive lives, 
 And gives new life, unconscious that it gives. 
 Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace, 
 In dens and burning plains, her savage race 
 With those tame tribes who on their lord attend, 
 And find in man a master and a friend ; 
 Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new, 
 A moral world, that well demands our view. 
 
 This world is here ; for, of more lofty kind, 
 These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind ; 
 They paint the state of man ere yet endued 
 With knowledge ; man, poor, ignorant, and rude ; 
 Then, as his state improves, their pages swell, 
 And all its cares, and all its comforts tell : 
 Here we behold how inexperience buys, 
 At little price, the wisdom of the wise ; 
 Without the troubles of an active state, 
 Without the cares and dangers of the great,
 
 The Library. 109 
 
 Without the miseries of the poor, we know 
 What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow ; 
 We see how reason calms the raging mind, 
 And how contending passions urge mankind : 
 Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire ; 
 Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire ; 
 Whilst others, won by either, now pursue 
 The guilty chase, now keep the good in view ; 
 For ever wretched, with themselves at strife, 
 They lead a puzzled, vexed, uncertain life ; 
 For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain, 
 Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain. 
 Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge th 
 
 soul, 
 
 New interests draw, new principles control : 
 Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief, 
 But here the tortured body finds relief; 
 For see where yonder sage Arachne shapes 
 Her subtle gin, that not a fly escapes ! 
 There PHYSIC fills the space, and far around, 
 Pile above pile her learned works abound : 
 Glorious their aim to ease the labouring heart ; 
 To war with death, and stop his flying dart ; 
 To trace the source whence the fierce contest 
 
 grew, 
 
 And life's short lease on easier terms renew ; . 
 To calm the frenzy of the burning brain ; 
 To heal the tortures of imploring pain ; 
 Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave, 
 To ease the victim no device can save, 
 And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.
 
 no Book- Verse. 
 
 But man, who knows no good unmixed and 
 
 pure, 
 
 Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure ; 
 For grave deceivers lodge their labours here, 
 And cloud the science they pretend to clear ; 
 Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent ; 
 Like fire and storms, they call us to repent ; 
 But storms subside, and fires forget to rage. 
 These are eternal scourges of the age : 
 Tis not enough that each terrific hand 
 Spreads desolations round a guilty land ; 
 But trained to ill, and hardened by its crimes, 
 Their pen relentless kills through future times. 
 
 Say, ye, who search these records of the dead 
 Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read, 
 Can all the real knowledge ye possess, 
 Or those- if such there are who more than guess, 
 Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes, 
 And mend the blunders pride or folly makes ? 
 
 What thought so wild, what airy dream so light, 
 That will not prompt a theorist to write ? 
 What art so prevalent, what proofs so strong, 
 That will convince him his attempt is wrong? 
 One in the solids finds each lurking ill, 
 Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill; 
 A learned friend some subtler reason brings, 
 Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs ; 
 The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye, 
 Escape no more his subtler theory ; 
 The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart, 
 Lends a fair system to these sons of art ;
 
 The Library. m 
 
 The vital air, a pure and subtile stream, 
 Serves a foundation for an airy scheme, 
 Assists the doctor and supports his dream. 
 Some have their favourite ills, and each disease 
 Is but a younger branch that kills from these ; 
 One to the gout contracts all human pain ; 
 He views it raging in the frantic brain ; 
 Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar, 
 And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh : 
 Bilious by some, by others nervous seen, 
 Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen ; 
 And every symptom of the strange disease 
 With every system of the sage agrees. 
 
 Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long 
 The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song ; 
 Ye first seducers of my easy heart, 
 Who promised knowledge ye could not impart ; 
 Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes ; 
 Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose ; 
 Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt, 
 Light up false fires, and send us far about ; 
 Still may yon spider round your pages spin, 
 Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin ! 
 Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell, 
 Most potent, grave, and reverend friends farewell ! 
 
 Near these, and where the setting sun displays, 
 Through the dim window, his departing rays 
 And gilds yon columns, there, on either side, 
 The huge Abridgments of the LAW abide ; 
 Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand, 
 And spread their guardian terrors round the land ;
 
 1 1 2 Book- Verse. 
 
 Yet, as the best that human care can do 
 Is mixed with error, oft with evil too, 
 Skilled in deceit, and practised to evade, 
 Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were 
 
 made, 
 
 And justice vainly each expedient tries, 
 While art eludes it, or while power defies. 
 " Ah ! happy age," the youthful poet sings, 
 " When the free nations knew not laws nor kings, 
 When all were blest to share a common store, 
 And none were proud of wealth, for none were 
 
 poor ; 
 
 No wars nor tumults vexed each still domain, 
 No thirst of empire, no desire of gain ; 
 No proud great man, nor one who would be great, 
 Drove modest merit from its proper state ; 
 Nor into distant climes would Avarice roam, 
 To fetch delights for Luxury at home : 
 Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe, 
 They dwelt at liberty, and love was law ! " 
 
 " Mistaken youth ! each nation first was rude, 
 Each man a cheerless son of solitude, 
 To whom no joys of social life were known, 
 None felt a care that was not all his own ; 
 Or in some languid clime his abject soul 
 Bowed to a little tyrant's stern control ; 
 A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he 
 
 raised, 
 
 And in rude song his ruder idol praised ; 
 The meaner cares of life were all he knew ; 
 Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few ;
 
 The Library. \ 13 
 
 But when by slow degrees the Arts arose, 
 And Science wakened from her long repose ; 
 When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease, 
 Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas ; 
 When Emulation, born with jealous eye, 
 And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry ; 
 Then one by one the numerous laws were made, 
 Those to control, and these to succour trade ; 
 To curb the insolence of rude command, 
 To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand ; 
 To awe the bold, to yield the wronged redress, 
 And feed the poor with Luxury's excess." 
 
 Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and 
 
 strong, 
 
 His nature leads ungoverned man along ; 
 Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide, 
 The laws are formed, and placed on every side ; 
 Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed, 
 New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed ; 
 More and more gentle grows the dying stream, 
 More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem ; 
 Till, like a miner working sure and slow, 
 Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below ; 
 The basis sinks, the ample piles decay ; 
 The stately fabric shakes and falls away ; 
 Primeval want and ignorance come on, 
 But Freedom, that exalts the savage state, is 
 
 gone. 
 Next HISTORY ranks; there full in front she 
 
 lies, 
 
 And every nation her dread tale supplies ; 
 
 8
 
 H4 Book- Verse. 
 
 Yet History has her doubts, and every age 
 With sceptic queries marks the passing page ; 
 Records of old nor later date are clear, 
 Too distant those, and these are placed too near ; 
 There time conceals the objects from our view, 
 Here our own passions and a writer's too : 
 Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose ! 
 Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes; 
 Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain, 
 Lo ! how they sunk to slavery again ! 
 Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possessed, 
 A nation grows too glorious to be blest; 
 Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all, 
 And foes join foes to triumph in her fall. 
 
 Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's 
 
 race, 
 
 The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace ; 
 The headlong course, that maddening heroes run, 
 How soon triumphant, and how soon undone ; 
 How slaves, turned tyrants, offer crowns to sale, 
 And each fallen nation's melancholy tale. 
 
 Lo ! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood, 
 Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood ; 
 There, such the taste of our degenerate age, 
 Stand the profane delusions of the STAGE : 
 Yet virtue owns the TRAGIC MUSE a friend, 
 Fable her means, morality her end ; 
 For this she rules all passions in their turns, 
 And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns ; 
 Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl, 
 Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul ;
 
 The Library. 115 
 
 She makes the vile to virtue yield applause, 
 And own her sceptre while they break her laws ; 
 For vice in others is abhorred of all, 
 And villains triumph when the worthless fall. 
 
 Not thus her sister COMEDY prevails, 
 Who shoots at Folly, for her arrow fails ; 
 Folly, by Dulness armed, eludes the wound, 
 And harmless sees the feathered shafts rebound ; 
 Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill, 
 Laughs at her malice, and is Folly still. 
 Yet well the Muse portrays, in fancied scenes, 
 What pride will stoop to, what profession 
 
 means ; 
 
 How formal fools the farce of state applaud ; 
 How caution watches at the lips of fraud ; 
 The wordy variance of domestic life ; 
 The tyrant husband, the retorting wife ; 
 The snares of innocence, the lie of trade, 
 And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade. 
 
 With her the Virtues too obtain a place, 
 Each gentle passion, each becoming grace ; 
 The social joy in life's securer road, 
 Its easy pleasure, its substantial good ; 
 The happy thought that conscious virtue gives, 
 And all that ought to live, and all that lives. 
 
 But who are these ? Methinks a noble mien 
 And awful grandeur in their lorm are seen, 
 Now in disgrace : what though by time is spread 
 Polluting dust o'er every reverend head ; 
 What though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie, 
 And dull observers pass insulting by :
 
 1 1 6 Book- Verse. 
 
 Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe, 
 What seems so grave, should no attention draw ! 
 Come, let us then with reverend step advance, 
 And greet the ancient worthies of ROMANCE. 
 
 Hence, ye profane ! I feel a former dread, 
 A thousand visions float around my head : 
 Hark ! hollow blasts through empty courts resound 
 And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round ; 
 See ! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise, 
 Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes ; 
 Lo ! magic verse inscribed on golden gate, 
 And bloody hand that beckons on to fate : 
 "And who art thou, thou little page, unfold? 
 Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold ? 
 Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign 
 The captive queen ; for Claribel is mine. " 
 Away he flies ; and now for bloody deeds, 
 Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds ; 
 The giant falls ; his recreant throat I seize, 
 And from his corslet take the massy keys : 
 Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move, 
 Released from bondage with my virgin love : 
 She comes ! she comes ! in all the charms of 
 
 youth, 
 Unequalled love, and unsuspected truth ! 
 
 Ah ! happy he who thus, in magic themes, 
 O'er worlds bewitched, in early rapture dreams, 
 Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand, 
 And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land ; 
 Where doubtful objects strange desires excite, 
 And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.
 
 The Library. 1 1 7 
 
 But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys, 
 Which Reason scatters, and which Time destroys ; 
 Too dearly bought : maturer judgment calls 
 My busied mind from tales and madrigals ; 
 My doughty giants all are slain or fled, 
 And all my knights blue, green, and yellow 
 
 dead ! 
 
 No more the midnight fairy tribe I view, 
 All in the merry moonshine tippling dew ; 
 E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain, 
 The churchyard ghost is now at rest again ; 
 And all these wayward wanderings of my youth 
 Fly Reason's power, and shun the light of Truth. 
 
 With Fiction then does real joy reside, 
 And is our reason the delusive guide ? 
 Is it then right to dream the syrens sing ? 
 Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing ? 
 No ; 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown, 
 That makes th' imagined paradise its own ; 
 Soon as reflections in the bosom rise, 
 Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes : 
 The tear and smile, that once together rose, 
 Are then divorced ; the head and heart are foes : 
 Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan, 
 And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man. 
 
 While thus, of power and fancied empire vain, 
 With various thoughts my mind I entertain ; 
 While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize, 
 Pleased with the pride that will not let them please, 
 Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise, 
 And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes ;
 
 1 1 8 Book- Verse. 
 
 For, lo ! while yet my heart admits the wound, 
 I see the CRITIC army ranged around. 
 
 Foes to our race ! if ever ye have known 
 A father's fears for offspring of your own ; 
 If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line, 
 Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine, 
 Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt, 
 With rage as sudden dashed the stanza out ; 
 If, after fearing much and pausing long, 
 Ye ventured on the world your laboured song, 
 And from the crusty critics of those days 
 Implored the feeble tribute of their praise ; 
 Remember now the fears that moved you then, 
 And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen. 
 
 What vent'rous race are ours ! what mighty foes 
 Lie waiting all around them to oppose ! 
 What treacherous friends betray them to the fight ! 
 What dangers threaten them : yet still they write : 
 A hapless tribe ! to every evil born, 
 Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn : 
 Strangers they come, amid a world of woe, 
 And taste the largest portion ere they go. 
 
 Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around ; 
 The roof, methought, returned a solemn sound ; 
 Each column seemed to shake, and clouds, like 
 
 smoke, 
 
 From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke ; 
 Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem, 
 Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream ; 
 Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine 
 Round the large members of a form divine ;
 
 The Library. 119 
 
 His silver beard, that swept his aged breast, 
 His piercing eye, that inward light expressed, 
 Were seen but clouds and darkness veiled the 
 
 rest. 
 
 Fear chilled my heart : to one of mortal race, 
 How awful seemed the Genius of the place ! 
 So in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw 
 His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe ; 
 Like him I stood, and wrapped in thought profound, 
 When from the pitying power broke forth a 
 
 solemn sound : 
 
 ' ' Care lives with all ; no rules, no precepts save 
 The wise from woe, no fortitude the brave ; 
 Grief is to man as certain as the grave : 
 Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise, 
 And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies. 
 Some drops of comfort on the favoured fall, 
 But showers of sorrow are the lot of all : 
 Partial to talents, then, shall Heaven withdraw 
 Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law ? 
 Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views, 
 Life's little cares and little pains refuse ? 
 Shall he not rather feel a double share 
 Of mortal woe, when doubly armed to bear ? 
 
 " Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind 
 On the precarious mercy of mankind ; 
 Who hopes for wild and visionary things, 
 And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous 
 
 wings ; 
 
 But as, of various evils that befall 
 The human race, some portion goes to all ;
 
 1 20 Book- Verse. 
 
 To him perhaps the milder lot's assigned 
 
 Who feels his consolation in his mind, 
 
 And, locked within his bosom, bears about 
 
 A mental charm for every care without. 
 
 E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief, 
 
 Or health or vigorous hope affords relief ; 
 
 And every wound the tortured bosom feels, 
 
 Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals ; 
 
 Some generous friend of ample power possessed ; 
 
 Some feeling heart, that bleeds for the distressed ; 
 
 Some breast that glows with virtues all divine ; 
 
 Some noble RUTLAND, misery's friend and thine. 
 
 " Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen, 
 Merit the scorn they meet from little men. 
 With cautious freedom if the numbers flow, 
 Not wildly high, nor pitifully low ; 
 If vice alone their honest aims oppose, 
 Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes ? 
 Happy for men in every age and clime, 
 If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme. 
 Go on, then, Son of Vision 1 still pursue 
 Thy airy dreams ; the world is dreaming too. 
 Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state, 
 The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great, 
 Stripped of their mask, their cares and troubles 
 
 known, 
 
 Are visions far less happy than thy own : 
 Go on ! and, while the sons of care complain, 
 Be wisely gay and innocently vain ; 
 While serious souls are by their fears undone, 
 Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,
 
 Imitation of Horace. 121 
 
 And call them worlds ! and bid the greatest show 
 More radiant colours in their worlds below : 
 Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove, 
 And tell them, Such are all the toys they love." 
 GEORGE CRABBE, The Library, 1781. 
 
 THE BOOKWORMS. 
 
 [Burns saw a splendidly bound but sadly neglected 
 copy of Shakespeare in the library of a nobleman 
 in Edinburgh, and he wrote these lines on the 
 ample margin of one of its pages, where they were 
 found long after the poet's death.] 
 
 THROUGH and through the inspired leaves, 
 Ye maggots, make your windings ; 
 But oh, respect his lordship's taste, 
 And spare the golden bindings. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 IMITATION OF HORACE, EP. 20, BK. I. 
 
 METHINKS, oh vain, ill-judging book ! 
 I see thee cast a wistful look, 
 Where reputations won and lost are 
 In famous row called Paternoster. 
 Incensed to find your precious olio 
 Buried in unexplored port-folio, 
 You scorn the prudent lock and key ; 
 And pant, well-bound and gilt, to see 
 Your volume in the window set 
 Of Stockdale, Hookham, and Debrett.
 
 122 Book- Verse. 
 
 Go, then, and pass that dang'rous bourn 
 Whence never book can back return ; 
 And when you find condemn'd, despis'd, 
 Neglected, blam'd, and criticis'd 
 Abuse from all who read you fall 
 (If haply you be read at all), 
 Sorely will you for folly sigh at, 
 And wish for me, and home, and quiet. 
 
 Assuming now a conjuror's office, I 
 Thus on your future fortune prophesy : 
 Soon as your novelty is o'er, 
 And you are young and new no more, 
 In some dark dirty corner thrown, 
 Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strovvn, 
 Your leaves shall be the bookworm's prey ; 
 Or sent to chandler-shop away, 
 And doom'd to suffer public scandal, 
 Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle. 
 But should you meet with approbation, 
 And someone find an inclination 
 To ask, by natural transition, 
 Respecting me and my condition ; 
 That I am one, th' inquirer teach, 
 Not very poor, nor very rich ; 
 Of passions strong, of hasty nature, 
 Of graceless form and dwarfish stature ; 
 By few approv'd and few approving ; 
 Extreme in hating and in loving ; 
 Abhorring all whom I dislike, 
 Adoring who my fancy strike :
 
 The Bibliomania. 123 
 
 In forming judgments never long, 
 And for the most part judging wrong : 
 In friendship firm, but still believing 
 Others are treach'rous and deceiving ; 
 And thinking, in the present era, 
 That friendship is a pure chimera : 
 More passionate no creature living, 
 Proud, obstinate, and unforgiving ; 
 But yet, for those who kindness shew, 
 Ready through fire and smoke to go. 
 
 Again, should it be asked your page, 
 " Pray, what may be the author's age ? " 
 Your faults, no doubt, will make it clear, 
 I scarce have seen my twentieth year, 
 Which passed, kind reader, on my word, 
 While England's throne held George the Third. 
 
 Now then your venturous course pursue : 
 Go, my delight ! dear book, adieu ! 
 
 M. G. LEWIS, The Monk, 1796. 
 
 THE BIBLIOMANIA. * 
 
 Hie, inquis, veto quisquam faxit oletum. 
 Ping-e duos angues. PERS., Sat. i., 1. 112. 
 
 WHAT wild desires, what restless torments 
 seize 
 
 The hapless man, who feels the book-disease, 
 If niggard Fortune cramp his gen'rous mind 
 And Prudence quench the Spark by heaven assign'd !
 
 1 24 Book- Verse. 
 
 With wistful glance his aching eyes behold 
 The Princeps-copy, clad in blue and gold, 
 Where the tall Book-case, with partition thin, 
 Displays, yet guards the tempting charms within : 
 So great Facardin view'd, as sages ' tell, 
 Fair Crystalline immur'd in lucid cell. 
 
 Not thus the few, by happier fortune grac'd, 
 And blessed, like you, with talents, wealth, and 
 
 taste, 
 
 Who gather nobly, with judicious hand, 
 The Muse's treasures from each letter'd strand. 
 For you the Monk illum'd his pictur'd page, 
 For you the press defies the Spoils of age ; 
 FAUSTUS for you infernal tortures bore, 
 For you ERASMUS 2 starv'd on Adria's shore. 
 The FOLIO-ALDUS loads your happy Shelves, 
 And dapper ELZIVERS, like fairy elves, 
 Shew their light forms amidst the well -gilt Twelves : 
 In slender type the GIOLITOS shine, 
 And bold BODONI stamps his Roman line. 
 For you the LOUVRE opes its regal doors, 
 And either DIDOT lends his brilliant stores : 
 With faultless types, and costly sculptures bright, 
 IBARRA'S Quixote charms your ravish'd sight ; 
 LABORDE in splendid tablets shall explain 
 Thy beauties, glorious, tho' unhappy SPAIN ! 
 
 ' Sages : Count Hamilton in the Quartre Facardins, 
 and Mr. M. Lewis in his Tales of Romance. 
 
 ~ See the " Opulentia Sordida " in his Colloquies, 
 where he complains feelingly of the spare Venetian diet.
 
 The Bibliomania. 125 
 
 O hallowed name, the theme of future years, 
 Embalm'd in Patrot-blood, and England's tears, 
 Be thine fresh honours from the tuneful tongue, 
 By Isis' stream which mourning Zion sung ! 
 
 But devious oft from ev'ry classic Muse, 
 
 The keen Collector meaner paths will choose ; 
 
 And first the Margin's breadth his soul employs, 
 
 Pure, snowy, broad, the type of nobler joys. 
 
 In vain might HOMER roll the tide of song, 
 
 Or HORACE smile, or TULLY charm the throng : 
 
 If crost by Pallas' ire, the trenchant blade 
 
 Or too oblique, or near, the edge invade, 
 
 The Bibliomane exclaims, with haggard eye, 
 
 " No Margin ! " turns in haste, and scorns to buy ; 
 
 He turns where PYBUS rears his Atlas-head, 
 
 Or MADOC'S mass conceals its veins of lead. 
 
 The glossy lines in polish'd order stand, 
 
 While the vast margin spreads on either hand, 
 
 Like Russian wastes, that edge the frozen deep, 
 
 Chill with pale glare, and lull to mortal sleep. 3 
 
 Or English books, neglected and forgot, 
 Excite his wish in many a dusty, lot : 
 
 3 It may be said that Quintillian recommends mar- 
 gins ; but it is with a view to their being occasionally 
 occupied : " Debet vacare etiam locus, in quo notentur 
 quae scribentibus solent extra ordinem, id est ex aliis 
 quam qui sunt in manibus loci, occurrere. Irrumpunt 
 enim optimi nonnunquam Sensus, quos neque inserere 
 oportet, neque differre tutum est " (Instil., lib. x., c. 3). 
 He was therefore no margin-man, in the modern sense.
 
 1 26 Book- Verse. 
 
 Whatever trash Midwinter gave to-day, 
 
 Or Harper's rhiming sons, in paper gray, 
 
 At every auction, bent on fresh supplies, 
 
 He cons his Catalogue with anxious eyes : 
 
 Where'er the slim Italics mark the page, 
 
 Curious and rare his ardent mind engage. 
 
 Unlike the Swans, in Tuscan Song display'd, 
 
 He hovers eager o'er Oblivion's Shade, 
 
 To snatch obscurest names from endless night, 
 
 And give COKAIN or FLETCHER 4 back to light. 
 
 In red morocco drest he loves to boast 
 
 The bloody murder, or the yelling ghost ; 
 
 Or dismal ballads, sung to crowds of old, 
 
 Now cheaply bought for thrice their weight in 
 
 gold. 
 
 Yet to th' unhonour'd dead be Satire just ; 
 Some flowers 5 "smell sweet and blossom in their 
 
 dust." 
 
 'Tis thus ev'n SHIRLEY boasts a golden line, 
 And LOVELACE strikes, by fits, a note divine. 
 Th' unequal gleams like midnight-lightnings play, 
 And deepen'd gloom succeeds, in place of day. 
 
 1 Fletcher, a translation of Martial. A very bad poet, 
 but exceedingly scarce. 
 
 Only the actions of the just 
 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. 
 
 SHIRLEY. 
 
 Perhaps Shirley had in view this passage of Persius : 
 
 Nunc non e tumulo, fortunataque favilla 
 Nascentur Violae. Sat. i., 1. 37.
 
 The Bibliomania. 127 
 
 But human bliss still meets some envious storm ; 
 
 He droops to view his PAYNTER'S mangled form ; 
 
 Presumptuous grief, while pensive Taste repines 
 
 O'er the frail relics of her Attic Shrines ! 
 
 O for that power, for which Magicians vye, 
 
 To look through earth, and secret hoards descry ! 
 
 I'd spurn such gems as Marinel 6 beheld, 
 
 And all the wealth Aladdin's cavern held, 
 
 Might I devine in what mysterious gloom 
 
 The rolls of sacred bards have found their tomb : 
 
 Beneath what mould'ring tower, or waste 
 
 champain, 
 
 Is hid MENANDER, sweetest of the train ; 
 Where rests ANTIMACHUS' forgotten lyre, 
 Where gentle SAPPHO'S still seductive fire ; 
 Or he, 7 whom chief the laughing Muses own, 
 Yet skill'd with softest accents to bemoan 
 Sweet Philomel in strains so like her own." 
 
 The menial train has prov'd the Scourge of wit, 
 Ev'n Omar burnt less Science than the spit. 
 Earthquakes and wars remit their deadly rage, 
 But ev'ry feast demands some fated page. 
 Ye Towers of Julius, 9 ye alone remain 
 Of all the piles that saw our nation's strain, 
 When HARRY'S sway opprest the groaning realm, 
 And Lust and Rapine seiz'd the wav'ring helm. 
 
 ' Faerie Queene. 
 Aristophanes. 
 
 fc See his exquisite hymn to the Nightingale in his 
 Opwfles. * Gray.
 
 128 Book-Verse. 
 
 Then ruffian-hands defaced the sacred fanes, 
 Their saintly statues and their storied panes ; 
 Then from the chest, with ancient art embost, 
 The Penman's pious scrolls were rudely tost ; 
 Then richest manuscripts, profusely spread, 
 The brawny Churl's devouring Oven fed : 
 And thence Collectors date the heav'nly ire 
 That wrapt Augusta's domes in sheets of fire. " 
 
 Taste, tho' misled, may yet some purpose gain, 
 But Fashion guides a book-compelling brain." 
 Once, far apart from Learning's moping crew, 
 The travell'd beau displayed his red-heel'd shoe, 
 Till ORFORD rose, and told of rhiming Peers, 
 Repeating noble words to polish'd ears ; l2 
 Taught the gay crowd to prize a flutt'ring name, 
 In trifling toil'd, nor "blush'd to find it fame." 
 The letter'd fop now takes a larger scope, 
 With classic furniture, clesign'd by HOPE 
 (HOPE, whom Upholst'rers eye with mute despair, 
 The doughty pedant of an elbow-chair ;) 
 Now warm'd by ORFORD, and by Granger school'd 
 In Paper-books, superbly gilt and tool'd, 
 He pastes, from injur'd volumes snipt away, 
 His English Heads, in chronicled array. 
 Torn from their destin'd page (unworthy meed 
 Of knightly counsel, and heroic deed) 
 
 10 The Fire of London. 
 
 11 Cloud-compelling Jove. POPE'S Iliad. 
 
 12 ... gaudent praenomine molles 
 Auriculae. JUVENAL.
 
 The Bibliomania. 129 
 
 Not FAITHORNE'S stroke, nor FIELD'S own types 
 
 can save 
 
 The gallant VERES, and one-eyed OGLE 1S brave. 
 Indignant readers seek the image fled, 
 And curse the busy fool, who wants a head. 
 
 Proudly he shows, with many a smile elate, 
 The scrambling subjects of the private plate ; 
 While Time their actions and their names bereaves, 
 They grin for ever in the guarded leaves. 
 
 Like Poets, born, in vain Collectors strive 
 To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive, 
 Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will, 
 The Tyrant-passion drags them backward still ; 
 Ev'n I, debarr'd of ease, and studious hours, 
 Confess, mid anxious toil, its lurking pow'rs. 
 How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold 
 The small, rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold ! 
 The eye skims restless, like the roving bee, 
 O'er flowers of wit, or song, or repartee, 
 While sweet as Springs, new-bubbling from the 
 
 stone, 
 Glides through the breast some pleasing theme 
 
 unknown. 
 
 Now dipt in Rossi's u terse and classic style, 
 His harmless tales awake a transient smile. 
 
 13 "The gallant Veres and one-eyed Ogle." Three 
 fine heads, for the sake of which the beautiful and in- 
 teresting Commentaries of Sir Francis Vere have been 
 mutilated by the collectors of English portraits. 
 
 l * Generally known by the name of Janus Nicius 
 Erythrseus. The allusion is to his Pinacotheca. 
 
 9
 
 1 30 Book- Verse. 
 
 Now BOUCHET'S motley stores my thoughts arrest, 
 With wond'rous reading, and with learned jest : 
 Bouchet ls whose tomes a grateful line demand, 
 The valued gift of STANLEY'S lib'ral hand. 
 Now sadly pleased, through faded Rome I stray, 
 And mix regrets with gentle Du BELLAY ; ls 
 Or turn, with keen delight, the curious page, 
 Where hardly PASQUIN )7 braves the Pontiffs rage. 
 
 But D n's strains should tell the sad reverse, 
 
 When Business calls, invet'rate foe to verse ! 
 Tell how " the Demon claps his iron hands," 
 "Waves his lank locks, and scours along the 
 
 lands." 
 
 Through wintry blasts, or summer's fire I go, 
 To scenes of danger, and to sights of woe. 
 Ev'n when to Margate ev'ry Cockney roves, 
 And brain-sick poets long for shelt'ring groves, 
 Whose lofty shades exclude the noontide glow, 
 While Zephyrs breathe, and waters trill below, 18 
 
 ' r ' Les Sere'es de Guillautne Bouchet, a book of un- 
 common rarity. I possess a handsome copy by the 
 kindness of Colonel Stanley. 
 
 " Les Regrets, by Joachim du Bellay, contains a most 
 amusing and instructive account of Rome in the six- 
 teenth century. 
 
 17 Pasquillorum Totni duo. 
 
 18 Errare per lucos, aemaense, 
 Quos et aquae subeunt et aurae. 
 
 HORAT.
 
 Book-Collector to Book-Reader. 131 
 
 Me rigid Fate averts, by tasks like these, 
 From heav'nly musings, and from letter'd ease. 
 
 Such wholesome checks the better Genius sends, 
 From dire rehearsals to protect our friends : 
 Else when the social rites our joys renew, 
 The stuff'd Portfolio would alarm your view, 
 Whence volleying rhimes your patience would 
 
 o'ercome, 
 
 And, spite of kindness, drive you early home. 
 So when the traveller's hasty footsteps glide 
 Near smoking lava on Vesuvio's side, 
 Hoarse-mutt'ring thunders from the depths pro- 
 ceed ; 
 
 And spouting fires incite his eager speed, 
 Appall'd he flies, while rattling show'rs invade, 
 Invoking ev'ry Saint for instant aid : 
 Breathless, amaz'd, he seeks the distant shore, 
 And vows to tempt the dang'rous gulph no more. 
 
 JOHN FERRIAR, The Bibliomania : An Epistle to 
 Richard Heber, Esq., 1809. 
 
 ADDRESS FROM THE BOOK-COLLECTOR 
 TO THE BOOK-READER. 
 
 YE Pedants, burning to be known 
 For literary blood, and bone, 
 Though all your energies are shewn 
 In opening Authors, like dissectors,
 
 132 Book-Verse. 
 
 Give room ! and, gulping your disgrace, 
 Be taught to take the second place ; 
 The first I vaunt it to your face 
 Belongs to ... whom but Us COLLECTORS ? 
 
 Book-worms, attend ! I'll make it good 
 (What Ye by halves have understood) 
 Your reading is unwholesome food, 
 
 And serves but to oppress the system : 
 Our TITLE-PAGE is just enough ; 
 It does not starve it does not stuff; 
 Presents the smooth, removes the rough, 
 
 And shews the fruits, where you have miss'd 'em. 
 
 Idolater of Greece, and Rome ! 
 That div'st into the deepening tome, 
 In quest of Sages far from home, . . . 
 
 Thou, seeking others, drown'st thy self : 
 Collectors know a safer way ; 
 We skim the gulf in airy play, 
 And what we gather through the day, 
 
 Endangers nothing . . . but the shelf. 
 
 In pity of thy weary coil, 
 
 By morning dawn, and midnight oil, 
 
 I'll school thee how to cheat the toil, 
 
 Blabbing the secrets of our Doing : 
 FOUR RULES, AND FOUR ! that Spell contains 
 The mystery of our learned gains, 
 The wealth, discumbered of the pains ; 
 
 Perpend the charmed words ensuing :
 
 Book-Collector to Book- Reader. 133 
 
 FIRST MAXIM. 
 
 Who slaves the monkish Folio through, 
 With lore, or science, in his view, 
 Him . . . Visions black, or Devils blue, 
 
 Shall haunt at his expiring taper : 
 Yet, 'tis a weakness of the Wise, 
 To chuse the volume by the size, 
 And riot in the pond'rous prize, 
 
 Dear Copies . . . " printed on LARGE PAPER ! ' 
 
 SECOND MAXIM. 
 
 Who, with fantastic pruning-hook, 
 Dresses the borders of his book, 
 Merely to ornament its look 
 
 Amongst Philosophers a fop is : 
 What if, perchance, he thence discover 
 Facilities in turning over ? 
 The Virtuoso is a Lover 
 
 Of coyer charms in " UNCUT COPIES." 
 
 THIRD MAXIM. 
 
 Who, swearing not a line to miss, 
 Doats on the leaf his fingers kiss, 
 Thanking the Words for all his bliss, 
 
 Shall rue, at last, his passion frustrate : 
 We love the page that draws its flavour 
 From Draftsman, Etcher, and Engraver, 
 And hint the Booby (by his favour) 
 
 His gloomy " Copy" to " ILLUSTRATE."
 
 1 34 Book- Verse. 
 
 FOURTH MAXIM. 
 
 Who in all Copies finds delight 
 
 The wrong not scenting from the right 
 
 And, with a choiceless appetite, 
 
 Just comes to feed, . . . like Soph, or Templar, - 
 Out on his iron stomach ! We 
 Have rarities we merely see, 
 Nor taste our Phcenix, though it be . .'. 
 
 Serv'd up in the " UNIQUE EXEMPLAR." 
 
 FIFTH MAXIM. 
 
 Who blindly take the Book display'd 
 
 By Pettifoggers in the Trade, 
 
 Nor ask of what the leaf was made, 
 
 That seems like Paper, I can tell 'em, 
 That though 'tis possible to squint 
 Through any page with letters in't, 
 No Copy, though an Angel print, 
 
 Reads elegantly but " on VELLUM." 
 
 SIXTH MAXIM. 
 
 Who of Editions recks the least, 
 
 But, when that Hog, his Mind, would feast, 
 
 Fattens the intellectual Beast 
 
 With old, or new, without ambition, 
 I'll teach the pig to soar on high, 
 (If pigs had pinions, by the bye) ; 
 Howe'er the last may satisfy, 
 
 The bonne bouche is the " FIRST Edition."
 
 Of Books. 135 
 
 SEVENTH MAXIM. 
 
 Who dares to " write me down an Ass," 
 When, spying through the curious mass, 
 I rub my hands, and wipe my glass, 
 
 If, 'chance, an Error bless my notice, 
 Will prize, when drill'd into his duty, 
 These lovely warts of ugly beauty ; 
 For Books, when false, (it may be new t' ye,) 
 
 Are "TRUE Editions : " odd, ... but so 'tis. 
 
 EIGHTH MAXIM. 
 
 Who dreams the Type should please us all, 
 That's not too thin, and not too tall, 
 Nor much awry, nor over small, 
 
 And, if but ROMAN, asks no better 
 May die in darkness : I, for one, 
 Disdain to tell the barb'rous Hun 
 That Persians but adore the sun 
 
 Till taught to know our god i3lacfc=lUtter. 
 REV. J. BERESFORD, Bibliosophia, 1810. 
 
 OF BOOKS. 
 
 OF books I sing. Of all that greets the eye, 
 And warms the fancy, and delights the 
 heart, 
 
 And touches, by a thousand secret springs, 
 Congenial, the enraptured soul, in shape
 
 136 Book-Verse. 
 
 Of folded leaves imprinted, the coy muse 
 Willing, yet anxious, now essays to sing. 
 T. F. DIBDIN, Bibliography : a Poem, 1812. 
 
 r 
 
 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S 
 HOMER. 
 
 MUCH have I travell'd in the realms of gold, 
 And many goodly states and kingdoms 
 seen ; 
 
 Round many western islands have I been 
 Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
 Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
 That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne ; 
 Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
 Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold : 
 Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 
 When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
 Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 
 He stared at the Pacific and all his men 
 Look'd at each other with a wild surmise 
 Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 
 
 JOHN KEATS, Poems, 1817. 
 
 r
 
 137 
 
 OVER THE THRESHOLD OF MY LIBRARY.* 
 
 FROM mouldering Abbeny's dark Scriptorium 
 brought, 
 
 See vellum tomes by monkish labour wrought ; 
 Nor yet the comma born, Papyri see, 
 And uncial letters wizard grammary ; 
 View my fifteeners in their rugged line ; 
 What ink ! what linen ! only known long syne 
 Entering where ALDUS might have fixed his 
 
 throne, 
 Or Harry Stephens covetted his own. 
 
 REV. HENRY DRURY. 
 
 r 
 
 TO MY BOOKS ON PARTING WITH 
 THEM. 1 
 
 AS one who, destined from his friends to part, 
 Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile 
 To share their converse and enjoy their smile, 
 And tempers as he may affliction's dart, 
 Thus, loved associates ! chief of elder Art ! 
 Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile 
 My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, 
 I now resign you ; nor with fainting heart ; 
 For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, 
 And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, 
 
 1 Roscoe's books were sold in Liverpool, August- 
 September, 1816.
 
 138 Book- Verse. 
 
 And all your sacred fellowship restore ; 
 When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, 
 Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, 
 And kindred spirits meet to part no more. 
 
 WILLIAM ROSCOE. 
 
 TO BOCCACCIO IN HEAVEN. 
 (A PARODY.) 
 
 TO Boccaccio in Heaven, as he chatted one 
 day 
 With Chaucer and Caxton, and two or three 
 
 more, 
 
 The news of our Meeting went up, as they say, 
 And it set the Celestial Bard in a roar : 
 Says he, " Well I ween 
 When these fellows convene, 
 My laurels look fresher, more lively their green ; 
 So myself from this hour, I exultingly dub, 
 The Patron and Friend of the ROXBURGHE CLUB. 
 
 But since they of me as their origin boast, 
 
 I shall storm, like King ' Herode,' as drawn by 
 
 Ihan Parfre, 
 
 Unless, as their first Anniversary toast, 
 They drink in a bumper, my printer Valdarfer " ; 
 Quoth Wynken de Worde : 
 " 'Twill be vastly absurd, 
 
 Unless Caxton's their second, and I am their 
 third ;
 
 To Boccaccio in Heaven. 139 
 
 Then the whole will go smoothly, unchecked by 
 
 a rub, 
 And we all shall be pleased at the ROXBURGHE 
 
 CLUB." 
 
 Let the poor plodding pedant our revels despise, 
 Who would cover his dullness with gravity's 
 
 cloak : 
 
 Cui bono ? What brings them together ? he cries 
 Why to eat, and to drink, and to laugh, and to 
 joke : 
 
 With the joys of old wine 
 From France or the Rhine, 
 
 Old friends, and old books, at our wassail com- 
 bine; 
 
 While the butterfly fop, and the miserly grub, 
 Are excluded alike from the ROXBURGHE CLUB. 
 
 That our social enjoyment of rational mirth 
 
 Is an evening well spent, e'en a cynic might 
 
 own ; 
 
 If Diogenes' self could revisit the earth, 
 He would soften his manners and alter his tone : 
 Alexander the Great 
 He contemned, and his State ; 
 But on D * * * * I'm sure he would civilly wait ; 
 And beg that he'd try to make room for his Tub, 
 As he longed for a frisk with the ROXBURGHE 
 CLUB. 
 
 But it is not alone, that good-humour'd and hearty, 
 Mirth's Goddess admits us to join in her crew ;
 
 140 Book- Verse. 
 
 That we shine, both distinguished Mercuric tt 
 
 Marte, 
 
 To our Chief and our Founder the honour is 
 due : 
 
 Old Spencer, a name 
 That for ever shall claim 
 The loftiest place in the Temple of Fame ; 
 And Marlborough, who France could, like Well- 
 ington, drub, 
 Are emblazoned at once in the ROXBURGHE CLUB. 
 
 From your humble servant, 
 June 17, 1817. A MEMBER.* 
 
 r 
 
 TO MR. MURRAY. 
 
 STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 
 Patron and publisher of rhymes, 
 For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 To thee, with hope and terror dumb, 
 The unpledged MS. authors come ; 
 Thou printest all and sellest some 
 My Murray. 
 
 1 Sir Alexander Boswell, Bart., who was killed in a 
 duel by Mr. Stuart, April 26th, 1822. The cause of 
 quarrel was a libel which had appeared in the Edin- 
 burgh Beacon. A reference to the Roxburghe Club will 
 be found on page 176.
 
 The Scholar in his Library. I4P 
 
 Upon thy table's baize so green 
 The last new Quarterly is seen, 
 But where is thy new Magazine, 
 
 My Murray ? 
 
 Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
 The works thou deemest most divine 
 The " Art of Cookery," and mine, 
 
 My Murray. 
 
 Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, 
 And Sermons to thy mill bring grist ; 
 And then thou hast the " Navy List," 
 My Murray. 
 
 And heaven forbid I should conclude 
 Without " the Board of Longitude," 
 Although this narrow paper would, 
 
 My Murray ! 
 LORD BYRON (Venice), March 25, 1818. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR IN HIS LIBRARY. 
 
 MY days among the Dead are pass'd 
 Around me I behold, 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 The mighty minds of old ; 
 My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom I converse night and day-
 
 142 Book- Verse. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal, 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe, 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead : with them 
 
 I live in long-past years, 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their griefs and fears ; 
 And from their sober lessons find 
 Instructions with a humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead : anon 
 With them my place will be ; 
 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 Through all futurity ; 
 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 
 Which will not perish in the dust. 
 
 R. SOUTHEY, 1818. 
 
 r 
 
 THE WORLD OF BOOKS. 
 
 WINGS have we and as far as we can go 
 We may find pleasure : wilderness and 
 wood, 
 
 Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood 
 Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. 
 Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we 
 know,
 
 Rev. J. Mitford's Library. 143 
 
 Are a substantial world, both pure and good : 
 Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and 
 
 blood, 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. 
 There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, 
 Matter wherein right voluble I am ; 
 To which I listen with a ready ear ; 
 Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, 
 The gentle Lady married to the Moor ; 
 And heavenly Una with her milk-white Lamb. 
 W. WORDSWORTH, Personal Talk. 
 
 STANZAS COMPOSED IN REV. J. 
 MITFORD'S LIBRARY. 
 
 O! I methinks could dwell content 
 A spell-bound captive here ; 
 And find, in such imprisonment, 
 
 Each fleeting moment dear ; 
 Dear, not to outward sense alone, 
 But thought's most elevated tone. 
 
 The song of birds, the hum of bees, 
 Their sweetest music make ; 
 
 The March winds, through the lofty trees, 
 Their wilder strains awake ; 
 
 Or from the broad magnolia leaves 
 
 A gentler gale its spirit leaves.
 
 144 Book- Verse. 
 
 Nor less the eye enraptur'd roves 
 
 O'er turf of freshest green, 
 O'er bursting flowers, and budding groves, 
 
 And sky of changeful mien, 
 Where sunny glimpses, bright and blue, 
 The fleecy clouds are peeping through. 
 
 Thus sooth'd, in every passing mood, 
 How swift each gifted page, 
 
 Rich with the mind's ambrosial food, 
 The Muse's brighter age ! 
 
 How sweet, communion here to hold 
 
 With them, the mighty Bards of old ! 
 
 With them whose master spirits yet 
 In deathless numbers dwell, 
 
 Whose works defy us to forget 
 Their still surviving spell ; 
 
 That spell, which lingers in a name, 
 
 Whose every echo whispers Fame ! 
 
 Could aught enhance such hours of bliss, 
 
 It were in converse known 
 With him who boasts a scene like this, 
 
 An Eden of his own ; 
 Whose taste and talent gave it birth, 
 And well can estimate its worth. 
 
 BERNARD BARTON, 1820. 
 
 r
 
 145 
 
 A BIBLIOGRAPHICAL MELODY. 
 
 (ADDRESSED TO THE ROXBURGHE CLUB.) 
 
 r 1 ^HAT Life is a Comedy oft hath been shown, 
 -L By all who Mortality's changes have known ; 
 But more like a Volume its actions appear, 
 Where each Day is a Page and each Chapter a 
 
 Year. 
 
 'Tis a Manuscript Time shall full surely unfold, 
 Though with Black-Letter shaded, or shining with 
 
 gold ; 
 
 The Initial, like Youth, glitters bright on its Page, 
 
 But its Text is as dark as the gloom of Old Age. 
 
 Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on 
 
 thy breast, 
 And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. 
 
 Though the Title stands first it can little declare 
 The Contents which the Pages ensuing shall bear ; 
 As little the first day of Life can explain 
 The succeeding events which shall glide in its 
 
 train. 
 
 The Book follows next, and, delighted, we trace 
 An Elzevir's beauty, a Gutenberg's grace ; 
 Thus on pleasure we gaze with as raptured an eye, 
 Till, cut off like a Volume imperfect, we die ! 
 Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on 
 
 thy breast, 
 
 And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. 
 
 10
 
 146 Book-Verse. 
 
 Yet e'en thus imperfect, complete, or defaced, 
 The skill of the Printer is still to be traced ; 
 And though Death bend us early in life to his will, 
 The wise hand of our Author is visible still. 
 Like the Colophon lines is the Epitaph's lay, 
 Which tells of what age and what nation our day, 
 And, like the Device of the Printer, we bear 
 The form of the Founder, whose Image we wear. 
 
 Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on 
 thy breast, 
 
 And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. 
 
 The work thus completed its Boards shall inclose, 
 Till a Binding more bright and more beauteous it 
 
 shows ; 
 
 And who can deny, when Life's Vision hath past, 
 That the dark Boards of Death shall surround us 
 
 at last ? 
 Yet our Volume illumed with fresh splendours shall 
 
 rise, 
 
 To be gazed at by Angels, and read to the skies, 
 Reviewed by its Author, revised by his Pen, 
 In a fair new Edition to flourish again. 
 Then Life's Counsels of Wisdom engrave on 
 
 thy breast, 
 
 And deep on thine Heart be her lessons imprest. 
 RICHARD THOMSON, 1820.
 
 147 
 
 ON FINDING A BOOK, WHICH HAD 
 BEEN LONG LAID BY. 
 
 DELIGHT of childhood, as I once again 
 Turn thy loved leaves, how many a tender 
 thought 
 
 And soft emotion rises, deeply fraught 
 With not unpleasing pensiveness and pain ! 
 Thou wak'st the first, and lo, a long long train 
 Of recollections to my view are brought, 
 Of recollections, that I oft have sought 
 'Mid the dark annals of the past, in vain. 
 Yes, Memory, I confess thy fond control ! 
 All freshly colour'd by thy brightest ray, 
 Shades of departed joys fleet o'er my soul, 
 Fair as the clouds, that oft, at close of day, 
 O'er evening's melancholy bosom roll ; 
 Alas, as unsubstantial too, as they ! 
 
 CHAUNCEY HARE TOWNSEND, 1821. 
 
 ONE VOLUME MORE.* 
 
 ASSIST me, ye friends of Old Books and Old 
 Wine, 
 
 To sing in the praises of sage Bannatyne, 
 Who left such a treasure of old Scottish lore 
 As enables each age to print one volume more. 
 One volume more, my friends, one volume more. 
 We'll ransack old Banny for one volume more.
 
 148 Book- Verse. 
 
 And first, Allan Ramsay was eager to glean 
 From Bannatyne's Hortus his bright Evergreen ; 
 Two light little volumes (intended for four) 
 Still leave us the task to print one volume more. 
 
 His ways were not ours, for he cared not a pin 
 How much he left out, or how much he put in ; 
 The truth of the reading he thought was a bore, 
 So this accurate age calls for one volume more. 
 
 Correct and sagacious, then came my Lord Hailes, 
 
 And weighed every letter in critical scales, 
 
 But left out some brief words, which the prudish 
 
 abhor, 
 And castrated Banny in one volume more. 
 
 John Pinkerton next, and I'm truly concern'd 
 I can't call that worthy so candid as learn'd, 
 He rail'd at the plaid and blasphemed the claymore, 
 And set Scots by the ears in his one volume more. 
 
 As bitter as gall, and as sharp as a razor, 
 And feeding on herbs like a Nebuchadnezzar, 
 His diet too acid, his temper too sour, 
 Little Ritson came out with his one volume more. 
 
 The stout Gothic Yeditur, 1 next on the roll, 
 With his beard like a brush, and as black as a coal ; 
 And honest Greysteel, 2 that was true to the core, 
 Lent their hearts and their hands each to one 
 volume more. 
 
 1 James Sibbald. ' David Herd.
 
 One Volume More. 149 
 
 Since by these single champions what wonders 
 
 were done, 
 
 What may not be achieved by our Thirty and One ? 
 Law, Gospel, and Commerce, we count in our 
 
 corps, 
 And the Trade and the Press join for one volume 
 
 more. 
 
 Ancient libels and contraband books, I assure ye, 
 We'll print as secure from Exchequer or Jury ; 
 Then hear your Committee, and let them count o'er 
 The Chiels they intend in their three volumes more. 
 
 They'll produce you King Jamie, the sapient and 
 
 sext, 
 And the Rob of Dumblane and her bishops come 
 
 next ; 
 
 One tome miscellaneous they'll add to your store, 
 Resolving next year to print four volumes more. 
 Four volumes more, my friends, four volumes 
 
 more, 
 
 Pay down your subscriptions for four volumes 
 more. 3 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1823. 
 
 3 "George Bannatyne, whose MSS. were printed 
 under Sir Walter's presidency of the Bannatyne Club, 
 was a scholar who, in 1568, copied out a quantity of 
 perishing books, especially of Old Scotch poetry. This 
 task beguiled him in a time of pestilence." A. LANG. 
 [We have omitted the "refrains" from each of the 
 verses, except the first and the last. ED.]
 
 1 50 Book- Verse. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE "EVERYDAY 
 BOOK." 
 
 I LIKE you, and your book, ingenious Hone ! 
 In whose capacious all-embracing leaves 
 The very marrow of tradition's shown ; 
 And all that history much that fiction weaves. 
 
 By every sort of taste your work is graced. 
 
 Vast stores of modern anecdote we find, 
 With good old story quaintly interlaced 
 
 The theme as various as the reader's mind. 
 
 Rome's lie-fraught legends you so truly paint 
 Yet kindly, that the half-turn'd Catholic 
 
 Scarcely forbears to smile at his own saint, 
 And cannot curse the candid heretic. 
 
 Rags, relics, witches, ghosts, fiends, crowd your 
 page; 
 
 Our fathers' mummeries we well-pleased behold, 
 And, proudly conscious of a purer age, 
 
 Forgive some fopperies in the times of old. 
 
 Verse-honoured Phoebus, Father of bright Days, 
 Must needs bestow on you both good and many, 
 
 Who, building trophies of his children's praise, 
 Run their rich Zodiac through, not missing any. 
 
 Dan Phoebus loves your book trust me, friend 
 
 Hone 
 The title only errs, he bid me say ;
 
 How to Kill Bookworms. 151 
 
 For while such art, wit, reading, there are shown, 
 He swears, 'tis not a book of every day. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, London Magazine, May, 1825. 
 
 *r 
 
 AT A BOOKSTALL. 
 
 I SAW a boy with eager eye 
 Open a book upon a stall, 
 And read as he'd devour it all ; 
 Which when the stall-man did espy, 
 Soon to the boy I heard him call, 
 " You, sir, you never buy a book, 
 Therefore in one you shall not look." 
 The boy pass'd slowly on, and with a sigh 
 He wish'd he never had been taught to read, 
 Then of the old churl's books he should have 
 had no need. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, Essays of Elia. 
 
 HOW TO KILL BOOKWORMS. 
 
 r I ''HERE is a sort of busy worm 
 J. That will the fairest books deform, 
 
 By gnawing holes throughout them ; 
 Alike through every leaf they go, 
 Yet of its merits nought they know, 
 
 Nor care they aught about them.
 
 152 Book- Verse. 
 
 Their tasteless tooth will tear and taint 
 The poet, patriot, sage, or saint, 
 
 Nor sparing wit nor learning : 
 Now, if you'd know the reason why, 
 The best of reasons I'll supply 
 
 'Tis bread to the poor vermin. 
 
 Of pepper, snuff, or 'bacca-smoke, 
 And russia-calf they make a joke. 
 
 Yet why should sons of science 
 These puny, rankling reptiles dread ? 
 ' Tis but to let their books be read, 
 
 And bid the worms defiance. 
 
 I. F. M. DOVASTON, Poems, 1825. 
 
 r 
 
 BOOKBINDING. 
 
 T7 MBODIED thought enjoys a splendid rest 
 I ^ On guardian shelves, in emblem costume 
 
 drest ; 
 
 Like gems that sparkle in the parent mine, 
 Through crystal mediums the rich coverings shine ; 
 Morocco flames in scarlet, blue and green, 
 Impress'd with burnish'd gold, of dazzling sheen ; 
 Arms deep emboss'd the owner's state declare, 
 Test of their worth their age and his kind care 
 Embalm'd in russia stands a valued pile, 
 That time impairs not, nor vile worms defile ; 
 Russia, exhaling from its scented pores
 
 Dr. Priestley's Study. 153 
 
 Its saving power to these thrice-valued stores, 
 
 In order fair arranged in volumes stand, 
 
 Gay with the skill of many a modern hand ; 
 
 At the expense of sinew and of bone, 
 
 The fine papyrian leaves are firm as stone : 
 
 Here all is square as by masonic rule, 
 
 And bright the impression of the burnished tool. 
 
 On some the tawny calf a coat bestows, 
 
 Where flowers and fillets beauteous forms compose : 
 
 Others in pride the virgin vellum wear, 
 
 Beaded with gold as breast of Venus fair ; 
 
 On either end the silken head-bands twine, 
 
 Wrought by some maid with skilful fingers fine 
 
 The yielding back falls loose, the hinges play, 
 
 And the rich page lies open to the day. 
 
 Where science traces the unerring line, 
 
 In brilliant tints the forms of beauty shine ; 
 
 These, in our works, as in a casket laid, 
 
 Increase the splendour by their powerful aid. 
 
 J. M'CREERY. 
 
 r 
 
 AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN 
 DR. PRIESTLEY'S STUDY. 
 
 A 
 
 LIST of folks that kicked a dust, 
 On this poor globe, from Ptol. the first. 
 
 The Fathers, ranged in goodly row, 
 A decent, venerable show,
 
 1 54 Book- Verse. 
 
 Writ a great while ago, they tell us, 
 And many an inch o'ertop their fellows. 
 
 Sermons, or politics or plays, 
 Papers and books, a stranged mixed olio, 
 From shilling touch to pompous folio ; 
 Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder, 
 Fresh from the mint, all stamped and coined here. 
 ***** 
 
 Forgotten rhymes and college themes, 
 Wormeaten plans and embryo schemes, 
 A mass of heterogenus matter, 
 A chaos dark, nor land nor water. 
 
 ***** 
 
 MRS. BARBAULD, Works, 1825. 
 
 TO MY BOOKS. 
 
 C* I LENT companions of the lonely hour, 
 vl} Friends who can never alter or forsake, 
 Who for inconstant roving have no power, 
 
 And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take 
 Let me return to you, this turmoil ending, 
 
 Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought, 
 And, o'er your old familiar pages bending, 
 
 Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought ; 
 Till happily meeting there, from time to time, 
 
 Fancies, the audible echo of my own, 
 'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
 
 Written in a Commonplace Book. 155 
 
 My native language spoken in friendly tone, 
 And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell 
 On these, my unripe musings, told so well. 
 
 THE HON. CAROLINE NORTON. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK 
 
 [Called The Book of Follies, in which every one that 
 opened it was to contribute something]. 
 
 THIS tribute's from a wretched elf, 
 Who hails thee, emblem of himself. 
 The book of life, which I have trac'd, 
 Has been, like thee, a motley waste 
 Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, 
 One folly bringing hundreds more. 
 Some have indeed been writ so neat, 
 In characters so fair, so sweet, 
 That those who judge not too severely, 
 Have said they lov'd such follies dearly : 
 Yet, still, O Book ! the illusion stands ; 
 For these were penned \>yfemale hands : 
 The rest alas ! I own the truth 
 Have all been scribbled so uncouth 
 That Prudence, with a with'ring look, 
 Disdainful, flings away the book. 
 Like thine, its pages here and there 
 Have oft been stain'd with blots of care 
 And sometimes hours of peace, I own, 
 Upon some fairer leaves have shown,
 
 1 56 Book- Verse. 
 
 White as the snowings of that heav'n 
 
 By which those hours of peace were given. 
 
 But now no longer such, oh, such, 
 
 The blast of Disappointment's touch ! 
 
 No longer now those hours appear ; 
 
 Each leaf is sullied by a tear : 
 
 Blank, blank is every page with care, 
 
 Not ev'n a folly brightens there. 
 
 Will they yet brighten ? Never, never ! 
 
 Then shut the book, O God, for ever ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE, Juvenile Poems. 
 
 THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. 
 
 HOW hard, when those who do not wish 
 To lend, that's lose, their books, 
 Are snared by anglers folks that fish 
 With literary hooks ; 
 
 Who call and take some favourite tome, 
 
 But never read it through ; 
 They thus complete their set at home, 
 
 By making one at you. 
 
 Behold the bookshelf of a dunce 
 
 Who borrows never lends : 
 Yon work, in twenty volumes, once 
 
 Belonged to twenty friends.
 
 The Art of Book-keeping. 157 
 
 Now tales and novels you may shut 
 
 From view 'tis all in vain ; 
 They're gone and though the leaves are " cut ' 
 
 They never " come again." 
 
 For pamphlets lent I look around, 
 
 For tracts my tears are spilt ; 
 But when they take a book that's bound 
 
 'Tis surely extra-gilt. 
 
 A circulating library 
 
 Is mine my birds are flown ; 
 There's one odd volume left to be 
 
 Like all the rest, a-lone. 
 
 I, of my Spenser quite bereft, 
 
 Last winter sore was shaken ; 
 Of Lamb I've but a quarter left, 
 
 Nor could I save my Bacon. 
 
 My Hall and Hill were levelled flat, 
 
 But Moore was still the cry ; 
 And then, although I threw them Sprat, 
 
 They swallowed up my Pye. 
 
 O'er everything, however slight, 
 
 They seized some airy trammel ; 
 They snatched my Hogg and Fox one night,. 
 
 And pocketed my Campbell. 
 
 And then I saw my Crabbe at last, 
 Like Hamlet's, backward go ;
 
 158 Book-Verse. 
 
 And, as my tide was ebbing fast, 
 Of course I lost my Rowe. 
 
 I wondered into what balloon 
 My books their course had bent ; 
 
 And yet, with all my marvelling, soon 
 I found my Marvell went. 
 
 My Mallet served to knock me down, 
 Which makes me thus a talker ; 
 
 And once, while I was out of town, 
 My Johnson proved a Walker. 
 
 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 
 Than Bramah's patent's worth ; 
 
 And now my losses I deplore 
 Without a Home on earth. 
 
 If once a book you let them lift, 
 
 Another they conceal ; 
 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 
 Is excommunicated.
 
 The Art of Book-keeping. 159 
 
 My little Suckling in the grave 
 
 Is sunk to swell the ravage ; 
 And what 'twas Crusoe's fate to save 
 
 'Twas mine to lose a Savage. 
 
 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, 
 
 My Taylor too must sail ; 
 To save my Goldsmith from arrest, 
 
 In vain I offered Bayle. 
 
 I Prior sought, but could not see 
 
 The Hood so late in front ; 
 And when I turned to hunt for Lee, 
 
 Oh ! where was my Leigh Hunt ? 
 
 I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, 
 
 Yet could not Tickell touch, 
 And then, alas ! I missed my Mickle, 
 
 And surely mickle's much. 
 
 'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, 
 
 My sorrows to excuse, 
 To think I cannot read my Reid, . 
 
 Nor even use my Hughes. 
 
 To West, to South, I turn my head, 
 Exposed alike to odd jeers ;
 
 160 Book- Verse. 
 
 For since my Roger Ascham's fled, 
 I ask 'em for my Rogers. 
 
 They took my Home and Home Tooke, too, 
 
 And thus my treasures flit ; 
 I feel, when I would Hazlitt view, 
 
 The flames that it has lit. 
 
 My word's worth little, Wordsworth gone, 
 
 If I survive its doom ; 
 How many a bard I doated on 
 
 Was swept off with my Broome. 
 
 My classics would not quiet lie, 
 
 A thing so fondly hoped ; 
 Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry 
 
 " My Livy has eloped ! " 
 
 My life is wasting fast away 
 
 I suffer from these shocks ; 
 And though I've fixed a lock on Gray 
 
 There's gray upon my locks. 
 
 I'm far from young am growing pale 
 
 I see my Butter fly ; 
 And when they ask about my ail, 
 'Tis Burton ! I reply. 
 
 They still have made me slight returns, 
 
 And thus my griefs divide ; 
 For oh ! they've cured me of my Burns, 
 
 And eased my Akenside.
 
 TJte London Booksellers. 161 
 
 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. 
 
 LAMAN BLANCHARD, 1830. 
 
 r 
 
 THE LONDON BOOKSELLERS; 
 OR "WHAT'S IN A NAME?"* 
 
 LONG hail to Longman and his longer Co.,* 
 Pride of our city's Paternoster Row ! 2 
 Thy trade forego in novel trash romantic, 
 And treat the world to something more gigantic. 
 
 Let Underwood all essays sell on trees, 
 On shrubs, or growth of brushwood, if he please ; 
 All works on brewing leave to Mr. Porter ; 
 To Boosey, temperance for his firm supporter. 
 
 Leave to friend Bull all works on horned cattle, 
 While Reid will teach the youthful mind to prattle : 
 Give Bohn anatomy ; give Mason sculpture ; 
 Gardiner's engrafted upon horticulture. 
 
 1 "Of Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown, 
 Our fathers of the Row ! " SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 " Paternoster Row now the greatest book-mart in 
 the world did not begin to assume any consequence 
 till the booksellers deserted Little Britain in the reign 
 of Queen Anne. The south-west end, before that 
 period, was noted for mercers, lacemen, haberdashers, 
 and similar trades. There were, however, booksellers 
 here in the middle of the sixteenth century. 
 
 II
 
 1 62 Book-Verse, 
 
 For valuation tables on the price of land 
 
 Why should we seek ? since Byfield is at hand ; 
 
 For works on draining either bog or fen, 
 
 In Marsh and Moore we have the choice of men. 
 
 Give Sherwood tales of merry men, who stood, 
 Firm to their robbing, around Robin Hood. 
 Ogle take optics Miller, works on grain 
 Ridgway, on railroads surgery with Payne. 
 
 Hail, Pic-a-dilly, Hatchard, thy vocation 
 Should be prolific, for 'tis incubation ; 
 Thy pious care brought Egley into note, 
 And still on Gosling some folks say you dote. 
 
 But to my plan. To make the dull ones plod- well, 
 Books for the use of schools give Mr. Rodwell ; 
 And works on painting should you ever lack, 
 You need but brush to either Grey or Black. 
 
 From Cowie works on vaccination fetch 
 Pedestrian tours from Walker or from Stretch ; 
 And if in search of wonders you should range, 
 Where can you get them better than from Strange ? 
 
 The suffering climbing-boys our pity claim 
 To aid their interests, Suttaby I'd name ; 
 And as they're oft of churchyard terrors slaves, 
 Print works to cure them, O, Moon, Boys, and 
 Graves !
 
 The Memory of Great Poets. 163 
 
 For plans of bridges, Arch would be the best ; 
 For stairs and steps on Banister I'd rest ; 
 All that relates to church or chapel holy, 
 I vote that such be Elder's business solely. 
 
 Sustenance on diet surely ought to treat ; 
 Joy gives us human happiness complete ; 
 Tilt will all works on tottrnament enhance ; 
 The law Oh ! that of course I leave to Chance. 
 
 Priestly and Chappel may divide theology, 
 Hookman and Roach the angling and ichthyology ; 
 And for phrenology, what need of rumpus, 
 One for his nob will do so take it, Bumpus ! 
 
 Gomic Offering, 1833. 
 
 THE MEMORY OF GREAT POETS. 
 (WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKESPEARE.) 
 
 HOW bravely Autumn paints upon the sky 
 The gorgeous fame of Summer which is 
 fled! 
 
 Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie, 
 Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed, 
 Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,
 
 164 Book-Verse. 
 
 Like exhalations from the leafy mould, 
 
 Look here how honour glorifies the dead, 
 
 And warms their scutcheons with a glance of 
 
 gold ! 
 
 Such is the memory of poets old, 
 Who on Parnassus-hill have bloom'd elate ; 
 Now they are laid under their marbles cold, 
 And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create ; 
 But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd, 
 And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate ! 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 THE BOOKSELLERS' SONG. 1 
 Air " Liberty Hall." 
 
 T)ROTHER booksellers, stationers, copyright - 
 
 ) holders ! 
 
 Typographers royal ! RARE binders and folders ! 
 
 1 Written for the Booksellers' Annual Festival, held 
 at Blackwall, June 13, 1839, R. Spottiswoode, Esq., in 
 the chair. This may be considered the first song 
 written for that interesting occasion. On the i6th of 
 December, 1836, the Booksellers' Provident Institution 
 was established, for the mutual assistance and support 
 of decayed booksellers and booksellers' assistants, 
 being members, and of their widows ; Cosmo Orme, 
 Chairman : and on the 3rd of September, 1845, 
 the foundation-stone of their Provident Retreat, at 
 Abbot's Langley, Hertfordshire, was laid by the Right 
 Hon. Earl of Clarendon, upon ground given by John 
 Dickinson, Esq., paper manufacturer, of London.
 
 The Booksellers' Song. 165 
 
 This true social meeting I beg to compare 
 To the GREAT BOOK OF LIFE, where we all have 
 a share. 
 
 'Tis a mighty good thing, and a test of good feeling, 
 To meet and discourse of the goods that we deal in ; 
 And sure none can boast of more dignified gains, 
 For we live by the furnishing other men's brains. 
 
 To "Time's storehouse" itself, when the public 
 
 would go, 
 
 The index of Fame points at once to the " Row!" 
 A fact that speaks volumes! since there are un- 
 
 furl'd 
 All the learning, and science, and wit in this world ! 
 
 How few can conceive the magnificent scenes, 
 Beheld in that dep&t of grand magazines ; 
 For 'tis no idle prate or assertion to say, 
 A review's quite a fool to a magazine day. 
 
 Yet serene 'midst the battle, that rages by fits, 
 Sword-cutlers as 'twere to the army of wits ! 
 We say to the Public 'tis time to look round, 
 When you all bring your intellects here to be 
 ground. 
 
 If your study be Man, we present the "Whole 
 
 Duty"; 
 If Woman's the theme, then 'tis " Heath's Book 
 
 of Beauty " ;
 
 1 66 Book-Verse. 
 
 Would the lawyer seek chaff, or the farmer good 
 
 crops, 
 They all throng alike to the booksellers' shops. 
 
 Thither hies the poor bard, growing thinner and 
 
 thinner, 
 Who can't scratch up thought to procure him a 
 
 dinner ! 
 
 He starts a rich quarry, (none happens to know it,) 
 And bursts out at once an original poet ! 
 
 Yet the public are told that we're " shockingly- 
 hard," 
 
 And thrive but by starving the poor "luckless" 
 bard, 
 
 Though we sell " Mines of Thought " for odd 
 shillings, and (zounds) 
 
 Buy 'em back the next day for as many score pounds ! 
 
 Some want cures for the gout, for the dropsy, or 
 
 phthisics, 
 
 E'en doctors themselves will hunt up metaphysics ; 
 To botanical students we make it appear 
 We've an " Annual " for more than each month in 
 
 the year. 
 
 We've theology, history, novels, and tales, 
 But I won't say which knocks down the best at 
 trade-sales !
 
 Song The Booksellers' Banquet. 167 
 
 Though 'tis still far from rare that the muse cuts 
 
 a caper, 
 Turning realms of romance into reams of waste 
 
 paper. 
 
 People want some good book e'en to tap a good 
 
 barrel ! 
 
 They can't go to law and maintain a good quarrel, 
 You can't make it up, and the small bill discharge, 
 Except by consulting the " Statutes at large." 
 
 Now to crown our success, may the public cry 
 
 "bravo!" 
 
 Whatever we print, either twelves or octavo ! 
 While true to our Post, we're for ever the sort O ! 
 To drink Queen and Prince in a right " royal 
 
 quart- O." 
 
 J. MAJOR. 
 
 r 
 
 SONG THE BOOKSELLERS' BANQUET. 1 
 
 RAVE vendors of volumes, best triends of the 
 VJT Nine, 
 
 Give ear to my song as to charm you I try ; 
 Other bards may in vain look for audience like 
 
 mine, 
 For the muses they chant, for the booksellers I. 
 
 1 Sung at the Booksellers' Annual Dinner, Blackwall, 
 June 7, 1840.
 
 1 68 Book-Verse. 
 
 Their notes I have drawn, so 'tis nothing but fair 
 That my notes should be drawn, if they please, 
 at a beck ; 
 
 Undaunted I warble I truly declare 
 
 My song is most valued when met by a cheque. 
 
 The work we've just finished went off very well ; 
 It was set out with plates, such as Finden or 
 
 Heath, 
 If ev'n their professional feelings rebel, 
 
 Must praise on account (not in spite) of their 
 
 teeth. 
 
 Though by Fraser 2 cut up, and by Murray re- 
 viewed, 
 
 Lovegrove's articles all fit insertion have found. 
 We have cleared off our boards, but as business is 
 
 good, 
 
 We keep wetted for use, and for pleasure un- 
 bound. 
 
 But here not for pleasure alone are we stored 
 Like holiday tomes in our gilding so bright ; 
 
 Some care 'tis our duty and wish to afford 
 In the moment of need to a less lucky wight, 
 
 Whose title is lost, and whose covers are torn, 
 When the moth has gnawed through, dust or 
 cobwebs surround, 
 
 " Mr. James Fraser, bookseller, publisher, and pro- 
 prietor of the well-known magazine which goes by his 
 name, died October 2, 1841.
 
 Books. 169 
 
 And to lift on the shelf our poor brother forlorn, 
 As a much damaged old folio treasured by 
 Lowndes. 
 
 Though his back stock of life may perchance weigh 
 him down, 
 
 By our aid may the old heavy pressure be moved, 
 And new-titled we start him again on the town, 
 
 As a second edition revised and improved. 
 And for dealings like this a commission will find, 
 
 And that of a date that the primest is given, 
 The commission is Strive to do good to mankind, 
 
 And the place of its date is no other than 
 Heaven. 
 
 I won't keep the press waiting my copy is gone, 
 
 Having finished a lay which Bob Fisher, perhaps, 
 May out of the head of old Caxton call one, 
 
 If not of his Drawing, yet Dining-room Scraps; 
 But as we all still think of Tom Talfourd's bill, 
 
 After sixty years' date, I respectfully beg, 
 As a knight of the quill, here to offer for nil, 
 
 My right in this song as a present to Tegg. 
 
 DR. MAGINN. 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
 BOOKS. 
 
 (IN A VOLUME OF WESTALL'S MILTON.) 
 
 N the dim room, upon the sofa lull'd 
 
 With books strewed round as thick as wild 
 flowers cull'd
 
 1 70 Book- Verse. 
 
 How oft has Spenser ? s vast and varied lay 
 Changed Pain's fierce imps to Paladin and Fay ? 
 Or FalstafPs wit or Milton's solemn strain, 
 Cheer'd this weak frame and flagging sense 
 
 again ? 
 
 O books ! O blessings ! Could the yellow ore 
 That countless sparkled in the Lydian's store, 
 Vie with the wealth ye lately flung round me 
 That even forgetfulness of agony 
 With which, beneath the garden's cooling breeze, 
 (July's hot face still flashing through the trees) 
 Slow stole the fevers of Disease away ; 
 While, bent o'er Tasso's sunbeam-written lay, 
 His own Armida in that Bower of Bliss 
 Shot to my heart a renovating kiss, 
 Till with Rinaldo I rush'd forth afar 
 Where loud on Zion burst the Red Cross war. 
 
 B. SIMMONS, Blackivood, October, 1841. 
 
 THE SOULS OF BOOKS. 
 
 I 
 I. 
 
 SIT here and muse ! it is an antique room 
 High-roof'd, with casements, through whose 
 purple pane 
 
 Unwilling Daylight stealing through the gloom, 
 Comes like a fearful stranger. 
 
 There THEY reign 
 (In loftier pomp than waking life had known),
 
 The Souls of Books. 171 
 
 The Kings of Thought ! not crown'd until the 
 
 grave. 
 
 When Agamemnon sinks into the tomb, 
 The beggar Homer mounts the Monarch's throne ! 
 Ye ever-living and imperial Souls, 
 Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe, 
 All that divide us from the clod ye gave ! 
 Law Order Love Intelligence the sense 
 Of Beauty Music and the Minstrel's wreath ! 
 What were our wanderings if without your goals J 
 As air and light, the glory ye dispense 
 Becomes our being who of us can tell 
 What he had been, had Cadmus never taught 
 To man the magic that embalms the thought 
 Had Plato never spoken from his cell, 
 Or his high harp blind Homer never strung ? 
 Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspere 
 
 sung ! 
 
 Hark ! while we muse, without the walls is heard 
 The various murmur of the labouring crowd. 
 How still, within those archive-cells interr'd, 
 The Calm Ones reign ! and yet they rouse the 
 
 loud 
 
 Passions and tumults of the circling world ! 
 From them, how many a youthful Tully caught 
 The zest and ardour of the eager Bar ; 
 From them, how many a young Ambition sought 
 Gay meteors glancing o'er the sands afar 
 By them each restless wing has been unfurl'd,
 
 172 Book-Verse. 
 
 And their ghosts urge each rival's rushing car ! 
 They made yon Preacher zealous for the truth ; 
 They made yon Poet wistful for the star ; 
 Gave Age its pastime fired the cheek of Youth 
 The unseen sires of all our beings are, 
 
 And now so still ! This, Cicero, is thy heart ; 
 I hear it beating through each purple line. 
 This is thyself, Anacreon yet, thou art 
 Wreath'd, as in Athens, with the Cnidian vine. 
 I ope thy pages, Milton, and, behold, 
 Thy spirit meets me in the haunted ground ! 
 Sublime and eloquent, as while, of old, 
 " It flamed and sparkled in its crystal bound ;'" 
 These are yourselves your life of life ! The Wise, 
 { Minstrel or Sage) out of their books are clay ; 
 But in their books, as from their graves, they rise, 
 Angels that, side by side, upon our way, 
 Walk with and warn us ! 
 
 Hark ! the world so loud, 
 And they, the movers of the world, so still ! 
 
 What gives this beauty to the grave ? The shroud 
 Scarce wraps the Poet, than at once there cease 
 Envy and Hate ! " Nine cities claim him dead, 
 Through which the living Homer begg'd his 
 
 bread ! " 
 
 And what the charm that can such health distil 
 From wither'd leaves oft poisons in their bloom ? 
 1 Comus.
 
 The Souls of Books. 173 
 
 We call some books immoral ! Do they live ? 
 
 If so, believe me, TIME hath made them pure. 
 
 In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace 
 
 God wills that nothing evil shall endure ; 
 
 The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole, 
 
 As the dust leaves the disembodied soul ! 
 
 Come from thy niche, Lucretius ! Thou didst give 
 
 Man the black creed of Nothing in the tomb ! 
 
 Well, when we read thee, does the dogma taint ? 
 
 No ; with a listless eye we pass it o'er, 
 
 And linger only on the hues that paint 
 
 The Poet's spirit lovelier than his lore. 
 
 None learn from thee to cavil with their God ; 
 
 None commune with thy genius to depart 
 
 Without a loftier instinct of the heart. 
 
 Thou mak'st no Atheist thou but mak'st the mind 
 
 Richer in gifts which Atheists best confute 
 
 FANCY AND THOUGHT ! 'Tis these that from the 
 
 sod 
 
 Lift us ! The life which soars above the brute 
 Ever and mightiest, breathes from a great Poet's 
 
 lute J 
 
 Lo ! that grim Merriment of Hatred, 2 born 
 Of him, the Master-Mocker of Mankind, 
 Beside the grin of whose malignant spleen 
 Voltaire's gay sarcasm seems a smile serene, 
 Do we not place it in our children's hands, 
 Leading young Hope through Lemuel's fabled 
 
 lands ? 
 
 3 Gulliver's Travels.
 
 1 74 Book- Verse. 
 
 God's and man's libel in that fool Yahoo ! 
 
 Well, and what mischief can the libel do ? 
 
 O impotence of Genius to belie 
 
 Its glorious task its mission from the sky ! 
 
 Swift wrote this book to wreak a ribald scorn 
 
 On aught the Man should love or Priest should 
 
 mourn, 
 
 And lo ! the book, from all its end beguil'd, 
 A harmless wonder to some happy child ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 All books grow homilies by time ; they are 
 Temples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, we 
 Who but for them, upon that inch of ground 
 We call "THE PRESENT," from the cell could 
 
 see 
 
 No daylight trembling on the dungeon bar ; 
 Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round, 
 And feel the Near less household than the Far ! 
 Traverse all space, and number every star, 
 There is no Past, so long as Books shall live ! 
 A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again 
 For him who seeks yon well ; lost cities give 
 Up their untarnish'd wonders, and the reign 
 Of Jove revives and Saturn : At our will 
 Rise dome and tower on Delphi's sacred hill ; 
 Bloom Cimon's trees in Academe ; 3 along 
 Leucadia's headland, sighs the Lesbian's song ; 
 
 3 Plutarch, in Vit. dm.
 
 The Souls of Books. 175 
 
 With ./Egypt's Queen once more we sail the Nile, 
 And learn how worlds are barter'd for a smile : 
 Rise up, ye walls, with gardens blooming o'er, 
 Ope but that page lo, Babylon once more ! 
 
 Ye make the Past our heritage and home : 
 And is this all ? No ! by each prophet-sage 
 No ; by the herald souls that Greece and Rome 
 Sent forth, like hymns, to greet the Morning Star 
 That rose on Bethlehem by thy golden page, 
 Melodious Plato by thy solemn dreams, 
 World-wearied Tully ! and, above ye all, 
 By THIS, the Everlasting Monument 
 Of God to mortals, on whose front the beams 
 Flash glory-breathing day our lights ye are 
 To the dark Bourne beyond ; in you are sent 
 The types of Truths whose life is THE TO-COME ; 
 In you soars up the Adam from the fall ; 
 In you the FUTURE as the PAST is given 
 Ev'n in our death ye bid us hail our birth ; 
 Unfold these pages, and behold the Heaven, 
 Without our gravestone left upon the Earth ! 
 
 EDWARD BULWER, LORD LYTTON. 
 Eva, and Other Poems, 1842
 
 176 Book-Verse. 
 
 BIBLIOMANIAC BALLAD. 
 
 [These verses are quoted from Timperley's Songs oj 
 the Press, 1845. The Roxburghe Club was instituted 
 in London on June lyth, 1812, to commemorate the sale 
 of the Valdarfer Boccaccio, which realised ^2,260, at that 
 time the highest sum ever paid for a book. The club 
 consisted of thirty-one of the most eminent book- 
 collectors in the kingdom, the Earl Spencer being 
 President. The club is still in existence, the Marquis 
 of Salisbury being President, but only a few of its 
 members are book-collectors. As regards this in- 
 genious and not particularly poetical series of verses 
 which at once recalls Homer's list of ships the 
 allusions and puns will be readily understood by those 
 who are intimate with the annals of English printing. 
 To those who may not happen to be so familiar, it 
 should be pointed out that the apparently obscure 
 allusions have reference to the mottoes and devices 
 employed by the printers mentioned, e.g. " Arise, it is 
 Day," was the motto used by John Day. ED.] 
 
 nnO the JJoitwrgfje Club, by way of dedication, 
 J_ And all ilacfc letter &0g6 who have passed 
 initiation : 
 
 Orsr. 
 
 My late good-natur'd Eame oft would preach long 
 
 and sage, 
 
 Censure idling of youth, extol virtues of age ; 
 For he lov'd his old acres, old woods, and old 
 
 rooks, 
 And his old easy chair, with old wine, and old 
 
 books.
 
 Bibliomaniac Ballad. 177 
 
 As he's dead, it were well in his library seat, 
 Conning technical phrases that he'd oft repeat, 
 And old printers' names from their colophons catch, 
 To write life bibl'ographic : take scrip of the 
 sketch. 
 
 Though born (BJeotgtf prtmo he a CAXTON would 
 
 prize 
 'Bove ten full-bottom'd Caxons to curl round his 
 
 eyes : 
 And the spell of fcladx letter he ne'er thought 
 
 absurd, 
 For young bibliomaniacs love WYNKYN THE 
 
 WORDE. 
 
 In a rebus no lady was half so deep read, 
 
 Or statesman with devices ere cramm'd so his head ; 
 
 He his CREED thought unknown, but for WHIT- 
 CHURCH would pray, 
 
 And in dark WINTER'S morn, cry : " Arise, it is 
 DAY ! " 
 
 Long a LEGATE he sought, and a HOOD kept with 
 
 care, 
 For saints, JULIAN NOTARY, and CRISPIN were 
 
 there ; 
 Though proud of an EMPEROUR, he'd an OLIVE 
 
 display, 
 But like TURK to the poor ne'er gave PENNY away. 
 
 No FOREST he knew, he would swear by the ROOD, 
 Had oak covers to equal his BLACKS or Cawood ; 
 
 12
 
 178 Book-Verse. 
 
 That the FIELD and the SHAW, and the BANKS 
 
 near at hand, 
 Were unrivail'd, by his WAY and Copland. 
 
 On the ton of Dame Fashion he laid little stress, 
 Save NOR-TON and SINGLE-TON in vellum we 
 
 guess ; 
 While GRAF-TON with MIDDLE-TON stood cheek 
 
 by jowl, 
 Unique Mayster FOLLING-TON raptur'd his soul. 
 
 Oft with smile showing JOY he called England his 
 
 own ; 
 Boasted BARLEY though short and his CORNE 
 
 stain 'd and BROWN, 
 
 When LYNNE'Saf were/0-rWhe'd a simile steal, 
 'Twas in no case to sacrifice ABRAHAM'S VEALE. 
 
 He as FISHER caught FRIES ( Walton tells no such 
 
 thing), 
 While the barb of his HOOKE held the BATE for 
 
 a LING : 
 Then he'd COUSIN a CHAPMAN or KNIGHT to the 
 
 treat, 
 Which the BUTLER and COOKE serv'd with CHARD 
 
 that was beat. 
 
 WISE or WODE he would HUNT a bold Rider for 
 
 HILLS, 
 With STIRRUP and REYNES seeking IOHN, NICK 
 
 and WILL'S ;
 
 Bibliomaniac Ballad. 179 
 
 As a FOULER he'd WYER that no WOODCOCKS 
 
 could spring ; 
 At the MEUSE, or in MARSHE, cast of Merlin like 
 
 KYNGE. 
 
 As he tippled his ypocras, malmsey, or sack, 
 With PINSON, like BEDEL, standing close at his 
 
 back, 
 He held converse with BERTHELET, GODFRAY, or 
 
 FAQUES, 
 Or would chaunt all the carols of KELE with new 
 
 shakes. 
 
 If careless with BILLY MACHLINA he sate, 
 A WOLFE upon this side, and a LYON on that, 
 Why his PORTER, or CARTER, or SHEPPERDB 
 
 was bid, 
 Of late, to place NELSON as a guard to his KID. 
 
 INSOMUCH as 'twas princely he ne'er would com- 
 plain, 
 
 That no spinster once PREST him when LUSTE 
 fill'd his brain ; 
 
 He in sheets long'd for widows : widow REDMAN 
 his joy, 
 
 He clasp'd widow CHARLEWOOD and kept HER- 
 FORD to TOY. 
 
 Thus his heart was unbound, as love's BOWER 
 
 gave room ; 
 Widow YETSWEIRT was there, and the widows 
 
 JOAN BROOME,
 
 i8o Book-Verse. 
 
 JOAN WOLFE and JOAN ORWIN, and while soft 
 
 things he'd utter 
 Of famous JOAN JUGGE, he would melt for JOAN 
 
 BUTTER. 
 
 The sygne of the sunne might its radiance exhaust, 
 To count up from TREVERIS to old German FAUST : 
 lie had POWELL for Ireland, LEPREWIK the 
 
 SCOTT, 
 But WELCH THACKWELL, uncertain, my Eame 
 
 never got. 
 
 When his FLOWER was cropt he'd show MANTELL 
 
 uncut, 
 He'd a VOWELL inlaid, and made HARRY TAR 
 
 strut 
 By Charles Lewis in hogskin, who bound his tall 
 
 MAN, 
 'Twas with SCARLET in bands, DEXTER gilding 
 
 the van. 
 
 Here a learned CLARKE'S PEN might most glow- 
 ingly speak 
 
 Of the bright blazing red in the lettres gothiques : 
 Of margins illumined, and how borders display 
 Death and cardinal virtues inviting to pray. 
 
 Then rich missal unfold, where the PAINTER bears 
 part, 
 
 Whose colouring, though matchless, shows in- 
 fantine art ;
 
 Bibliomaniac Ballad. 181 
 
 In romance seek a monster that with no text 
 
 agreeth, 
 Nor thing heavenly, earthly, or in wave beneath. 
 
 Nor forget the wood-cuts that such raptures afford, 
 Whose inventor founds lineage of Andreas Boarde : 
 And refer for choice specimens stole from that mint, 
 Unto Dibdin's new Ames, or a Triphook's reprint. 
 
 But he's gone : can one TRIPLET his memory save ? 
 Can his BISHOP inter him? his BOYS WAL-DE- 
 
 GRAVE ? 
 
 With but putting in boards can his spirit be fled ? 
 Why he ne'er got a COFFIN until he was dead ! 
 
 Ah, no, with his volumes would tarry his soul, 
 Could folios, could big-belly'd quartos control, 
 Or octavos et infra ; nay, studious be seen 
 With a twelves in morocco, or russia sixteen. 
 
 Shade of PATERSON, shall his collection disperse, 
 And one alphabet crush every class, prose and verse ? 
 Nor tell all that the imp. onyfy leafca.n portend ? 
 Nor imp. that he hallow'd and no devil could 
 mend ? 
 
 What his coll, and per. means, leave the novice to 
 
 guess; 
 
 Or, when made in facsimile per. by MS. 
 Leave surprise and delight for maniacal lover, 
 Neat joints, hollow back, and small squares to 
 
 discover.
 
 1 82 Book- Verse. 
 
 Leave EDITIO PRINCEPS, uncut, UNIQUE, rare, 
 With SMALL CAPS, and italics, friend LEIGH to 
 
 declare 
 
 By large paper catalogue at hammer's decision, 
 As BEN measures margin to enter commission. 
 CRISTOFER VALDARFER. 
 
 r 
 
 MY BOOKS. 
 
 MY benison upon you, Books, 
 Upon your ever-constant looks ! 
 Still the same seems every tome 
 To welcome me as I come home. 
 
 Now from our daily task releast, 
 I can hold my nightly feast ; 
 With philosophers discourse, 
 Wonder at polemics hoarse, 
 Feed on rhyme or flirt with rumour, 
 As may best befit my humour. 
 
 Blessed comforters are ye, 
 Well-springs of serenity, 
 Curing all sad perturbations 
 With your silent inspirations ! 
 Bitter thought ye soothe, I wist, 
 Leading Fancy as ye list. 
 When the soul is running riot, 
 Ye restore her with your quiet ;
 
 My Books. 183 
 
 Or from brooding sorrow wean, 
 Scene revealing after scene 
 Pointing upwards to the Holy, 
 Guiding downwards to the Lowly, 
 Drawing onwards to the Right, 
 Love inspiring or delight 
 As I turn your varied pages, 
 Stamped with brain-work of the ages. 
 
 Oh how sweet when I come home 
 To see around me many a tome : 
 Here to revel there to muse, 
 Glean or wander as I chuse ! 
 One or two so seems to me 
 Throb with echoes from the sea, 
 And in some my sense perceives 
 The melody of forest leaves ; 
 Here is one a bosom book 
 That babbles like a mountain brook ; 
 Another yet is gorgeous, still, 
 As sunset on a distant hill. 
 Endless landscapes cross my room, 
 Fancy-decked in twilight gloom ; 
 Autumn, Winter, Summer, Spring, 
 Wizard books, ye changeful bring ! 
 Something apt for each emotion, 
 Love, or gladness, or devotion. 
 Ye to me instead of wife, 
 Instead of child are second life. 
 
 Yet at will give up your knowledge 
 Such as may befit a college,
 
 184 Book-Verse. 
 
 Tortured into rigid rules, 
 Vexed with learning of the schools 
 Or ye ptoffer information 
 With an easy salutation, 
 As tho' meant, with purpose sly, 
 To put one off till by-and-by, 
 And leave me, after all endeavour, 
 In doubt of what is wise or clever. 
 
 Some of ye are as a stream 
 In whose depths rare jewels gleam. 
 Happy he who kneels to drink, 
 Leaning o'er the steepy brink, 
 Catching through the current's flow 
 Flashes from the gems below. 
 
 Admonishers of strife and folly, 
 Soothers of black melancholy, 
 Gentle, most persuasive Teachers, 
 Or authoritative Preachers ; 
 Companions full of life and spirit, 
 Mentors who some grudge inherit. 
 Sometimes full of queerest fancies, 
 Vague as jack-o'-lantern dances : 
 Other while ye are as prim 
 As Quakers neat, sedate, and trim. 
 Three or four are jolly fellows, 
 Whom time fortifies and mellows ; 
 Some make pretensions to be witty, 
 Others chant a stirring ditty ;
 
 Old Story Books. 185 
 
 Suiting every time and season 
 With a rhyme or with a reason. 
 
 Books beloved, ye are to me 
 An unretorting family : 
 Ye for each day's irritation 
 Always bring a compensation. 
 How shall sadness come or gloom 
 While ye lie about my room, 
 Looking down from friendly nooks ? 
 
 My benison upon you, Books ! 
 
 W. The Athenaeum, August 25, 1849. 
 
 OLD STORY BOOKS. 
 
 OLD Story Books ! Old Story Books ! we owe 
 ye much, old friends, 
 Bright-colour'd threads in Memory's warp, of 
 
 which Death holds the ends. 
 Who can forget ye ? who can spurn the ministers 
 
 of joy 
 
 That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy ? 
 I know that ye could win my heart when every 
 
 bribe or threat 
 Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my 
 
 sullen pet : 
 A " promised story " was enough I turned, with 
 
 eager smile, 
 To learn about the naughty "pig that would not 
 
 mount the stile."
 
 1 86 Book- Verse. 
 
 There was a spot in clays of yore whereon I used 
 
 to stand, 
 With mighty question in my head and penny in 
 
 my hand ; 
 Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up 
 
 a goodly show, 
 And " story books," upon a string, appeared in 
 
 brilliant row. 
 What should I have ? the peppermint was incense 
 
 in my nose, 
 But I heard of "hero Jack," who slew his giant 
 
 foes : 
 My lonely coin was balanced long, before the 
 
 tempting stall, 
 'Twixt book and bull's eye but, forsooth ! "Jack" 
 
 got it after all. 
 
 Talk of your "vellum, gold embossed," 
 
 "morocco," "roan," and "calf," 
 The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by 
 
 half; 
 And as to pictures well we know that never one 
 
 was made 
 Like that where "Bluebeard" swings aloft his 
 
 wife-destroying blade. 
 "Hume's England" pshaw! what history of 
 
 battles, states, and men, 
 Can vie with Memoirs " all about sweet little 
 
 Jenny Wren " ?
 
 Old Story Books. 187 
 
 And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a 
 
 nation dumb, 
 To those recorded as performed by " Master 
 
 Thomas Thumb " ! 
 
 Miss "Riding Hood," poor luckless child! my 
 
 heart grew big with dread 
 When the grim "wolf," in grandmamma's best 
 
 bonnet, showed his head ; 
 I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly 
 
 peeped beneath, 
 And made remarks about " great eyes," and 
 
 wondered at " great teeth." 
 And then the " House that Jack built," and the 
 
 " Beanstalk " Jack cut down, 
 And "Jack's eleven brothers," on their travels of 
 
 renown ; 
 And "Jack," whose cracked and plaster'd head 
 
 ensured him lyric fame, 
 These, these, methinks, make " vulgar Jack " a 
 
 rather classic name. 
 
 Fair " Valentine," I loved him well ; but, better 
 still the bear 
 
 That hugged his brother in her arms with tender- 
 ness and care. 
 
 I lingered spell-bound o'er the page, though even- 
 tide wore late, 
 
 And left my supper all untouch'd to fathom 
 "Orson's" fate.
 
 1 88 Book-Verse. 
 
 Then " Robin with his merry men," a noble 
 
 band were they, 
 We'll never see the like again, go hunting where 
 
 we may. 
 In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt Fancy 
 
 bore me on, 
 Through Sherwood's dewy forest paths, close after 
 
 " Little John." 
 
 "Miss Cinderella" and her "shoe" kept long 
 
 their reigning powers, 
 Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my 
 
 flying hours ; 
 And "Sinbad," wondrous sailor he, allured me 
 
 on his track, 
 And set me shouting when he flung the old man 
 
 from his back. 
 And oh ! that tale the matchless tale that made 
 
 me dream at night 
 Of "Crusoe's" shaggy robe of fur, and Friday's 
 
 death-spur'd flight ; 
 Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, 
 
 see 
 The savage dancers on the sand the raft upon 
 
 the sea. 
 
 Old story books ! old story books ! I doubt if 
 
 "Reason's Feast" 
 Provides a dish that pleases more than " Beauty 
 
 and the Beast " ;
 
 / Cannot Get a Publisher. 189 
 
 I doubt if all the ledger-leaves that bear a sterling 
 
 sum, 
 Yield happiness like those that told of " Master 
 
 Horner's plum." 
 Old story books ! old story books ! I never pass 
 
 ye by 
 Without a sort of furtive glance right loving, 
 
 though 'tis sly ; 
 And fair suspicion may arise that yet my spirit 
 
 grieves 
 For dear " Old Mother Hubbard's Dog" and "Ali 
 
 Baba's Thieves." 
 
 ELIZA COOK. 
 
 I CANNOT GET A PUBLISHER. 
 
 T CANNOT get a publisher, my case is very hard, 
 A I've struggled long to gain the name of 
 
 novelist or bard ; 
 I've six Romances cut and dry> of epics I have 
 
 more ; 
 I've written ballads by the yard, and sonnets by 
 
 the score : 
 One morn I penn'd a tragedy, a bloody tale of 
 
 woe, 
 It breath'd of daggers, fire, and death, with four 
 
 mad scenes or so ; 
 
 I read it to a manager from curtain's rise to fall, 
 He bade me cut it to a farce the cruellest cut of all.
 
 190 Book-Verse. 
 
 I cannot get a publisher ! they say the press is 
 
 free 
 Alas 1 \hefreedom of the press no freedom brings 
 
 to me. 
 A slave to dactyles, anapaests, iambics, and 
 
 spondees, 
 The " well of English undefiled " I've drained ev'n 
 
 to the lees ; 
 I try to break my chain and dive in learning's 
 
 deepest mines, 
 And yet in place of getting free, I'm caught in 
 
 my own lines ; 
 My prose, in periods rounded smooth, and turned 
 
 with nicest care, 
 Will soon a period put to me, or plunge me in 
 
 despair : 
 My syntax is admired by all keep talent out of 
 
 view 
 
 But I cannot get a publisher ! so what am I to do ? 
 They talk of patrons in the "trade," to which I 
 
 quite agree, 
 But when I call on one or all, they will not trade 
 
 with me. 
 I wrote to COLBURN, hoping he would hand me 
 
 up to fame, 
 And waited on the tenter-hooks till out the 
 
 MONTHLY came ; 
 But not a line or scrap of mine could I find printed 
 
 there, 
 Save "To 'O. O.' we say ok! oh!" which drove 
 
 me to despair !
 
 / Cannot Get a Publislur. 191 
 
 Then MURRAY of Albemarle Street, to him I 
 
 bent my way 
 lie said his hands were filled by all the first pens 
 
 of the day : 
 Pshaw ! 'tis too bad were I shown up in Quarterly 
 
 Review, 
 How does he know but I might rank a first-rate 
 
 writer too ! 
 E'en LONGMAN has turned short with me, and 
 
 CADELL scarce can'bow ; [now ! 
 
 MACRONE, he was a crony once he's not a crony 
 They're all alike ; SIMPKIN & Co. looked o'er 
 
 some lines of mine, 
 And now they send a line to say they are not in 
 
 that line. 
 I wrote to Dublin, but I've got no answer to my 
 
 prayer, 
 Although I wished most anxiously to CURRY 
 
 favour there. 
 I thought the Modern Athens might afford some 
 
 chance for me, 
 So, charged with trunk, high pressure crammed, 
 
 I thither hied with glee ; 
 But there the same sad want of taste I found even 
 
 to the full, 
 They said my grave works were too light, my 
 
 light works far too dull. 
 BLACKWOOD at once did black-ball me, and TAIT 
 
 'twas silly spite 
 Showed me a snuff-shop where they'd buy as much 
 
 as I could write.
 
 192 Book- Verse. 
 
 Then OLIVER I thought would take my tale, 
 
 Roland the True ; 
 But a " Roland for an Oliver" I found here would 
 
 not do. 
 The CHAMBERSES their chambers keep whene'er on 
 
 them I call, 
 And BRADFUTE quickly makes light foot between 
 
 me and the wall ; 
 And he who talked of " types " and " tomes " has 
 
 also turned my foe 
 Ye're no sae kind's you should hae been, JOHN 
 
 ANDERSON my joe ! 
 
 I cannot get a publisher ! and what is to be done ? 
 My Perryian pen will pen no more, my inky stream 
 
 is run. 
 Go, get a goose-quill ! sink expense ! come wind, 
 
 blow rack or rain, 
 
 Big with a summer tragedy, I'll try the field again ! 
 ROBERT GILFILLAN. 
 
 r 
 
 TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 
 
 OFTEN have I sighed to measure 
 By myself a lonely pleasure, 
 Sighed to think I read a book, 
 Only read, perhaps, by me. 
 
 W. WORDSWORTH.
 
 Miscellanea. 193 
 
 A LITERARY LABORATORY. 
 
 LO ! in that quiet and contracted room, 
 Where the lone lamp just mitigates the 
 gloom, 
 
 Sits a pale student stirred with high desires, 
 With lofty principles and gifted fires ; 
 From time to time, with calm, enquiring looks, 
 He culls the ore of wisdom from his books ; 
 Clears it, sublimes it, till it flows refined 
 From his alembic crucible of mind. 
 
 J. C. PRINCE. 
 
 r 
 
 THE BOOKWORM'S LULLABY.* 
 
 nnRAVELLER, rest ! thy journey o'er, 
 JL Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 
 Dream not of the toils of war, 
 
 Or of any sense of squeaking. 
 In our Isle's poetic hall 
 
 Fairies are thy straw-bed strewing ; 
 From evening unto morning, ALL 
 
 Keep foes from ev'n thy eye-lids dewing. 
 
 Traveller, rest ! thy journey o'er, 
 Dream of warring fools no more ; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
 Fairies seal thy eye-lids sleeping. 
 
 13
 
 194 Book-Verse. 
 
 No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 
 Sherwood clang, or Jerry stamping ; 
 Such, no, durst not enter here, 
 
 Fear they L g n's squadron trampling. 
 
 Should the screech-owl o'er thee fly, 
 Look not thou with phiz awry, 
 
 Nor let thy knees bespeak amazement ; 
 E'en should th' aerial forms appear, 
 Sent to daunt thee do not fear, 
 Scoff ye at them while advancing, 
 And they'll soon be backward prancing. 
 
 Traveller, rest ! thy journey's done, 
 Though poetic brawls assail ye ; 
 
 Dream not with the rising sun 
 Jerry's horns will sound reveille. 
 
 Sleep ! the hunter's in his den ; 
 
 Sleep ! his hounds are by him lying ; 
 Sleep ! nor dream on hill, in glen, 
 
 Thy poetic muse lies dying. 
 
 Traveller, rest ! thy journey's done, 
 Think not of the coming sun, 
 For at dawning, to assail ye, 
 Jerry-horns won't sound reveille.
 
 Miscellanea. 195 
 
 ON ANDREW TORAQUEAU, 
 
 [Who is said to have produced a book and a child every 
 year, till there were twenty of each ; or, as some 
 say, thirty. This, combined with the fact that he 
 was a water-drinker, was the occasion of the 
 following epitaph : ] 
 
 HERE lies a man, who, drinking only water, 
 Wrote twenty books, with each had son 
 or daughter. 
 
 Had he but used the juice of generous vats, 
 The world would scarce have held his books and 
 brats. 
 
 O FOR A BOOK! 
 
 OFOR a Booke and a shadie nooke, 
 Eyther in-a-doore or out, 
 With the greene leaves whisp'ring overhede, 
 
 Or the Streete cryes all about, 
 Where I may Reade all at my ease, 
 
 Both of the Newe and Olde, 
 For a jollie goode Booke, whereon to looke, 
 Is better to me than Golde. 
 
 Old English Song.
 
 196 Book- Verse. 
 
 MY BOOKS. 
 
 A LL round the room my silent servants wait 
 \. My friends in every season, bright and dim ; 
 Angels and seraphim 
 
 Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low, 
 And spirits of the skies all come and go 
 Early and late ; 
 
 All from the old world's divine and distant date, 
 From the sublimer few, 
 Down to the poet who but yester-eve 
 Sang sweet and made us grieve, 
 All come, assembling here in order due. 
 And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate, 
 With Erato and all her vernal sighs, 
 Great Clio with her victories elate, 
 Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes. 
 Oh friends, whom chance and change can never 
 
 harm, 
 
 Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die, 
 Within whose folding soft eternal charm 
 I love to lie 
 
 And meditate upon your verse that flows, 
 And fertilizes wheresoe'er it goes. 
 
 BARRY CORNWALL [BRYAN WALLER PROCTER], An 
 Autobiographical Fragment, 1877. 
 
 r
 
 Miscellanea. 197 
 
 ON CERTAIN BOOKS. 
 
 FAITH and fixt hope these pages may peruse, 
 And still be faith and hope ; but, O ye 
 winds ! 
 
 Blow them far off from all unstable minds, 
 And foolish grasping hands of youth ! Ye dews 
 Of heaven ! be pleased to rot them where they fall, 
 Lest loitering boys their fancies should abuse, 
 And they get harm by chance, that cannot choose ; 
 So be they stain'd and sodden, each and all ! 
 And if, perforce, on dry and gusty days, 
 Upon the breeze some truant leaf should rise, 
 Brittle with many weathers, to the skies, 
 Or flit and dodge about the public ways 
 Man's choral shout, or organ's peal of praise, 
 Shall shake it into dust, like older lies. 
 
 CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER. 
 
 A SCHOLAR'S LIBRARY. 
 
 '~pHE Elzevirs 
 
 -L Have fly-leaves over-written by his hand 
 In faded notes, as thick and fine and brown 
 As cob-webs on a tawny monument 
 Of the old Greeks, Conferenda hcec cum his 
 Corrupts citat lege potiiis, 
 And so on, in the scholar's regal way
 
 198 Book-Verse. 
 
 Of giving judgment on the parts of speech, 
 As if he sate on all twelve thrones up-piled 
 Arraigning Israel. 
 
 E. B. BROWNING, Aurora Leigh. Book V. 
 
 r 
 
 PRISON THOUGHTS. 
 
 BOOKS, dear books, 
 Have been, and are my comforts morn and 
 night, 
 
 Adversity, health, sickness, good or ill report, 
 The same firm friends ; the same refreshments 
 
 rich, 
 And source of consolation. 
 
 REV. W. DODD. 
 
 r 
 
 FROM THE PRAGMATIC SANCTION. 
 
 MAY this volume continue in motion, 
 And its pages each day be unfurl'd, 
 Till an ant has drunk up the ocean, 
 
 Or a tortoise has crawl'd round the world. 
 Paris, 1507.
 
 NOTES AND INDEX.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Page i. "A FIFTEENTH-CENTURY PROEM." 
 
 A VARIANT oi this "invocation" will be found in the 
 edition of Glanville printed by Wynkyn de Worde, 
 1498. Dibdin reprints it in his edition of Ames's Typo- 
 graphical Antiquities, 1810. 
 
 Page 4." To His BOOK." 
 
 This copy of the MS. of Lydgate's Boke of the Siege 
 of Troye was offered in Longman's Catalogue of 1818 
 for .350. As it is a large folio of 346 pages, the author's 
 notions of a " litel boke " were decidedly curious. The 
 title, or more correctly the first page, of the work is in 
 red ink, and contains an illuminated painting which 
 represents Lydgate on his knees presenting the book 
 to Henry V. 
 
 Page 5. " CHAUCER'S A B C." 
 
 The following quotation from the first volume of 
 Professor Skeat's Chaucer (p. 59) will explain with suf- 
 ficient fulness the origin and history of this vigorous 
 poem : " Guillaume De Deguilleville, a Cistercian 
 monk in the royal abbey of Chalis, in the year 1330 
 or 1331, wrote a poem entitled Pelerinage de la Vie 
 humaine. Of this there are two extant English trans- 
 lations, one in prose and one in verse, the latter being 
 201
 
 2O2 Notes. 
 
 attributed to Lydgate. Of the prose translation four 
 copies exist. In all of these, Chaucer's A B C is in- 
 serted, in order to give a verse rendering of a similar 
 prayer in verse in the original. Of Lydgate's verse 
 translation there is a copy in MS. Cotton, Vitell. c. xiii. 
 (ft". 255-6), and when he comes to the place where the 
 verse prayer occurs in his original, he says that, in- 
 stead of translating the prayer himself, he will quote 
 Chaucer's translation, observing, 
 
 " ' My mayster Chaucer, in hys tyme, 
 Affter the Frenchs he dyde yt ryme.' 
 
 Curiously enough, he does not do so; a blank space 
 was left in the MS. for the scribe to copy it out, but it 
 was never filled in." A full digest of the poem itself 
 will be found in Mr. Ward's admirable Catalogue of 
 Romances in the Department of Manuscripts in the 
 British Museum (ii., 571-7). 
 
 Page?. "A. BOOKWORM." 
 
 In addition to the extract given here, it may be 
 mentioned that the original translation contains three 
 bookish pieces in the preliminary matter " Alexander 
 Barclay Excusynge the Rudeness of his Translacion," 
 " An Exhortacion of Alexander Barclay," and " Barclay 
 the Translatour tho the Foles." 
 
 Page 18. " ADDRESS TO HIS BOOK." 
 
 Bellenden's translation of Hector Boece, hys Croni- 
 kilcs of Scotland, was made and published, not with a 
 view to general circulation, but for the use of a few of 
 the young nobility, whose education had not been 
 strictly conformable to the statute. The verse quoted 
 is the fifteenth of the twenty-nine which constitute 
 Bellenden's "Proheme."
 
 Notes. 203 
 
 Page 26. "To HIS BOOKE." 
 
 The "president of nobleness and of chivalry" is 
 Sir Philip Sidney, to whom The Shepheardes Calendar 
 is "entitled." 
 
 Page 36." CONCERNING THE HONOUR OF BOOKS." 
 
 This sonnet is by some attributed to Samuel Daniel. 
 It is prefixed to the second edition of John Florio's 
 translation of Montaigne's Essays, 1613. The matter 
 is fully discussed in Main's Treasury of English Son- 
 nets, p. 248. 
 
 Page 57. "ON THE BOOKS OF SOLOMON." 
 
 The following couplet "On Reading Dr. Trapp's 
 Translation of Virgil " may be quoted here : 
 
 " Read the commandments, friend, translate no further: 
 For it is written, ' Thou shalt do no murder.'" 
 
 Page 59. "AN AUTHOR'S OPINION OF HIS OWN 
 BOOK." 
 
 This volume is described by Lowndes as the lucu- 
 brations of a soldier who served in the Dutch and 
 Spanish wars. His name was probably Raymond, and 
 he was intimate or connected with the noble family 
 of Bellasise. The " Rymes " are chiefly lyrical and 
 amatory. 
 
 Page6i. "THE BOOK." 
 
 Dr. Grosart, in his monumental edition of Vaughan's 
 poems, points out that "the cover" in the third verse 
 alludes to the massive wooden side-covers of old books. 
 We may here draw the reader's attention to another 
 set of bookish verses by Vaughan, namely, "To the 
 Holy Bible."
 
 2O4 Notes. 
 
 Page 64. "THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS." 
 
 The first four " chants " of La Littrin were published 
 in 1674, and the last two not until 1681. The most 
 charming edition of this " ingenieuse et elegant plai- 
 santerie, chef-d'oeuvre de versification digne d'un moins 
 mince sujet," is that published in the complete CEuvres 
 of Boileau at the Hague by Pierre de Hondt, in 1729, 
 with Bernard Picart's illustrations. La Lutrin occurs 
 in the second volume ; the poem is comprised of over 
 1,200 lines in the original. 
 
 Pages 73 and 75. "VERSES TO BE PREFIXED TO 
 LINTOT'S MISCELLANY," AND "ON A MISCELLANY 
 OF POEMS." 
 
 These are variously attributed to Pope, Swift, and 
 Gay, and are to be found in each collected edition of the 
 works of the three poets. The probability is that the 
 first was written by Pope and the second by Gay. 
 
 Page 74. "To A YOUNG LADY WITH THE WORKS 
 OF VOITURE." 
 
 The young lady is Miss Teresa Blount. This epistle, 
 like that which precedes it and that which follows it, 
 was first published in Lintot's Miscellany. 
 
 Page 86. " THE BOOKWORM." 
 
 This poem is founded on the lines of Theodore de 
 Beze, " Ad Musas, Tineas Sacrificium ludicrum." See 
 the Vezelii Poetnata, printed at Paris by Badius in 
 1548, p. 69 ; and subsequent editions. It is also in- 
 cluded in the edition of the Poemata which Bernard 
 Lintot published in London in 1713. It is more than 
 passing strange that the poetical works of De Beze are 
 practically unknown in an English dress.
 
 Notes. 205 
 
 Page 93. "To HIS BOOK." 
 
 Timperley, in his Songs of the Press, states that 
 these verses appeared in the Annual Register, 1793, 
 but that is a mistake. The original is one of two odes 
 which were discovered in the Palatine Library, and 
 communicated to the world by Caspar Pallavicini, the 
 sub-librarian of that institution. They appeared in 
 the Gentleman's Magazine, January, 1778, and in the 
 Annual Register, 1777, where they are described as 
 Odes 39 and 40 of the First Book of Horace. In the 
 former periodical the originals are given with an elabo- 
 rate commentary, and the entire article appears to be 
 an original communication from Pallavicini to the 
 magazine. A translation was requested, and the next 
 issue contained a version of Ode 39, and the number 
 for April published three more versions of this Ode, 
 and an exceedingly indifferent one of Ode 40. The 
 translator of the lines on page 93 is unknown, unless, 
 indeed, they were translated by Timperley which is 
 most unlikely from whose Songs of the Press they 
 are taken. It is almost needless to say that they have 
 not been accepted as by Horace by his editors, although 
 the example which more immediately concerns us is a 
 charming little poem, quite Horatian in spirit. The 
 original lines are as follows : 
 
 AD LIBRUM SUUM. 
 
 Dulci libello nemo sodalium 
 Forsan meorum charior extitit : 
 De te merenti quid fidelis 
 Officium Domino rependes? 
 
 Te Roma cautum territat ardua ! 
 Depone vanos invidise metus ; 
 Urbisque, fidens dignitati, 
 Per plateas animosus audi.
 
 206 Notes. 
 
 En quo furentes Eumenidum choros 
 Disjecit almo fulmine Jupiter ! 
 Huic ara stabit, fama cantu 
 Perpetuo celebranda crescet. 
 
 Pagegj. "THE LIBRARY." 
 
 Crabbe is so little read now that it needs much tem- 
 erity to reprint the whole of this poem. But "The 
 Library" has many poetic beauties to which extracts 
 would not do justice. The Letters of Edward Fitzgerald 
 to Fanny Kemble, which Mr. Bentley has lately pub- 
 lished, contains more than one eloquent protest against 
 the neglect into which Crabbe has fallen. Byron con- 
 sidered "Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these 
 times in point of genius." Burke describes him as 
 having the mind and the feelings of a gentleman ; and 
 it was to Burke that, in want and danger, the unknown 
 poet sent this poem ; the great statesman at once saw 
 its merit, befriended the author, and procured its 
 publication. 
 
 Page 123. "THE BIBLIOMANIA." 
 
 The first edition of this poem was issued as a separate 
 quarto pamphlet in 1809. It is reprinted in the second 
 volume of the second edition of this author's Illustra- 
 tions of Sterne, and Other Essays, 1812. (This ex- 
 tremely entertaining edition contains an account of the 
 Shandy Library, or books which Sterne made use of.) 
 The Bibliomania reprinted on p. 123 is as the poem 
 appeared when first issued ; the second edition contains 
 about 140 additional lines, which are not here included. 
 A few of the footnotes have also been curtailed.
 
 Notes. 207 
 
 Page 137. "OVER THE THRESHOLD OF MY 
 LIBRARY." 
 
 The Latin original of this poem is quoted by Dibdin 
 in Bibliomania, p. 606, and is as follows : 
 IN MUSEI MEI ADITU. 
 
 Pontificum videas penetralibus eruta lapsis 
 
 Antiquas Monachum vellera passa manus, 
 Et veteres puncto sine divisore Papyros, 
 
 Quaeque fremit monstris litera picta suis ; 
 jEtatis decimae species Industria Quintae : 
 
 Quam pulcra Archetypos imprimat arte Duces 
 ALDINAS aedes ineuns et limina JUNT^E 
 
 Quosque suos Stephanus vellet habere Lares. 
 REV. HENRY I. THOMAS DRURY {died 1834). 
 
 Page 147. "ONE VOLUME MORE." 
 
 Lest it should be thought that so genuine a book- 
 lover as Sir Walter Scott wrote only one set of verses 
 in praise of books, we quote the following lines from 
 the lengthy introduction "To Richard Heber, Esq.," to 
 the sixth canto of Marmion : 
 
 " But why such instances to you, 
 
 Who, in an instant, can renew 
 
 Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
 
 And furnish twenty thousand more ? 
 
 Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest 
 ' Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, 
 
 While gripple owners still refuse 
 
 To others what they cannot use ; 
 
 Give them the priest's whole century, 
 
 They shall not spell you letters three ; 
 
 Their pleasure in the books the same 
 
 The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem.
 
 208 Notes. 
 
 Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
 
 Delight, amusement, science, art, 
 
 To every ear and eye impart ; 
 
 Yet who of all who thus employ them, 
 
 Can, like their owner's self, enjoy them ? " 
 
 Page 161. "THE LONDON BOOKSELLERS." 
 
 Nearly all the booksellers referred to in this set of 
 verses are extinct. The exceptions are Messrs. Long- 
 mans, Hatchards as a matter of fact there are no 
 Hatchards in the present firm of that name, but the 
 business is in a flourishing condition Ridgway and 
 Bumpus. 
 
 Page 193. "THE BOOKWORM'S LULLABY." 
 
 This is an obvious parody on Scott ; but of the 
 author we have been able to discover nothing. It 
 occurs in an incomplete volume which the present 
 writer fished out of a fourpenny box. An inquiry in 
 Notes and Queries has failed to elicit any information 
 respecting its title or author.
 
 INDEX. 
 
 A. B. C., CHAUCER'S, 5. 
 Ad Bibliopolam, 37. 
 Address to his Book, 18. 
 Address to my Book, 94. 
 Adenes li Roi, xxiii. 
 Adlington, W., 22. 
 Alcuin, xvi., xvii. 
 Alfunsi, Petrus, xix., xx. 
 
 note. 
 
 Annesley, Brian, 10. 
 Apuleius, 22. 
 Ascham's Latin Grammar, 
 
 19. 
 
 Athenceum, The, xx., 185. 
 Augustine, St., xxviii., xxx. 
 Author's Opinion of his 
 
 own Book, 59. 
 Author tohis Book, 16, 28,34. 
 Author to the Reader, 31. 
 
 BANCROFT, T., 51. 
 Barbauld, Mrs., 154. 
 Barclay, Alexander, xxxvi., 
 
 9- 
 
 Barksdale, C., 58. 
 Barton, Bernard, 144. 
 
 Battle of the Books, 64, 204. 
 
 Becon, T., 19. 
 
 Bellenden, J., 18, 202. 
 
 Beresford, Rev. J., 135. 
 
 Beze, T. de, 204. 
 
 Biblia Pauperum, xxvi. 
 
 Bibliographical Melody, A, 
 i4S- 
 
 Bibliography, 136. 
 
 Bibliomaniac Ballad, 176. 
 
 Bibliomania, The, 123, 206. 
 
 Bibliosophia, 135. 
 
 Blanchard, Laman, 161. 
 
 Blundeville, Thomas, ao. 
 
 Boccaccio in Heaven, To 
 138. 
 
 Boileau's La Lutrin, 64, 204. 
 
 Boke Speaketh, The, 18. 
 
 Book and a Thief, 45. 
 
 Bookbinding, 152. 
 
 Book-Collector, An Igno- 
 rant, 91. 
 
 to Book-Reader, 131. 
 
 Book-keeping, The Art of, 
 156. 
 
 Book of Follies, 155. 
 
 209 14
 
 2IO 
 
 Index. 
 
 Book, On Finding a, 147. 
 
 Skelton's Description 
 
 of, ii. 
 
 The, 61. 
 
 To his, 4, 5, 23, 26, 27, 
 
 36, 48, 51, 54, 56, 62, 93. 
 
 to the Reader, 52. 
 
 Book's Object, The, 10. 
 
 Verdict, The, 20. 
 
 Books, 169. 
 
 and Truth, 28. 
 
 Many, 63. 
 
 Of, 135. 
 
 Old Story, 185. 
 
 On Certain, 197. 
 
 On Parting with, 137. 
 
 On, 35. 
 
 Pleasures of, 33. 
 
 The Souls of, 170. 
 
 The World of, 142. 
 
 The Battle of the, 64. 
 
 To my, 154. 
 
 Bookseller, To my, 43. 
 Booksellers' Banquet, The, 
 167. 
 
 Song, The, 164. 
 
 Booksellers, The London, 
 
 161, 164 note, 167, 208. 
 Bookworm, A, 7, 202. 
 
 The, 86, 204. 
 
 Bookworm's Lullaby, 173. 
 Bookworms, How to Kill, 
 151- 
 
 The, 121. 
 
 Boswell, Sir Alexander, 
 
 140. 
 
 Brathwait, R., 37. 
 Browning, Mrs., 198. 
 
 Burns, Robert, 121. ' 
 Byron, Lord, 141. 
 
 CANTERBURY PILGRIM, 3. 
 
 Catalogue, The earliest, 
 xvii. 
 
 Catullus, x. 
 
 Celandine, To the, 192. 
 
 Chapman's Homer, 136. 
 
 Chaucer, G. ,xv., 2, 3, 5, 201. 
 
 Churchyard, Thomas, 28, 29. 
 
 Cicero, Epistolce, xxix. 
 
 Cle'omades, LiRoutnans de, 
 xxiii. 
 
 Comic Offering, 163. 
 
 Commonplace Book, Writ- 
 ten in a, 155. 
 
 Comparison, A, 53. 
 
 Cook, Eliza, 189. 
 
 Copland, Robert, xxxvi., 10, 
 n, 12, 14. 
 
 Coryat's Crudities, 44. 
 
 Cowper, W,, 96, 97. 
 
 Crabbe (G.), The Library, 
 97-121, 206. 
 
 Cracherode, C. M., xxxii. 
 
 Crashaw, R., 54. 
 
 DANIEL, S., 35, 203. 
 Dante's Divina Commedia, 
 
 xvii., xxi., xxix. 
 Day, John, 52. 
 De Rantzu, H., 34. 
 Dibdin, T. F., 136. 
 Digges, L., 42. 
 Dodd, Rev. W., 198. 
 Dovaston, I. F. M., 152. 
 Drury, Rev. H., 136.
 
 Index. 
 
 211 
 
 EPIGRAMS, Two, 80. 
 Epistle to all Readers, 49. 
 Eracli us, xvii. 
 
 FELTHAM'S Resolves, 49. 
 Ferriar, John, 131. 
 Fifteenth-Century Proem , i . 
 Fitzgerald, Ed., 206. 
 Fletcher, John, 33. 
 Florio, J., 36, 203. 
 Froissart, xx. 
 
 GARNETT, DR. R., xiv. 
 Gascoigne's Steel Glass, 25. 
 Gasparin of Bergamo, xxvii. 
 Gay, John, 78. 
 Gerardus de Flandria, xxx. 
 Gethin, Reliquiae Gethi- 
 
 niance, 89. 
 Gilfillan, R., 192. 
 Glanville, The Properties of 
 
 Things, i, 201. 
 Goodyere, Sir Henry, 43. 
 Gosynhyll, E., 17, 18. 
 Grove, The, 81. 
 
 HARINGTON, SIR J., 48, 49. 
 Heber, Richard, 131, 207. 
 Herbert's Temple, 53. 
 Herrick, R., 54-57. 
 Higden's Polychronicon, 
 
 xxxvi. 
 Hilton's Scale of Perfection, 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 His Book, 15. 
 
 Hone's Everyday Book, 150. 
 Honour of Books, 36. 
 Hood, Thomas, 164. 
 Horace, xi., 205. 
 
 Horace, Imitation of, 121- 
 
 123. 
 
 Hornbook, The, 81. 
 Humphreys, H. N., xxx. 
 Hunt, Leigh, 70. 
 
 IRELAND, W. H., xxxviii. 
 Ivory Table-Book, A Lady's, 
 71- 
 
 JONSON, BEN, 41, 43. 
 
 J ustinian's Digest, xxxi. 
 
 KEATS, JOHN, 136. 
 King, Dr. W., 79. 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES, 151. 
 Lamoral Prince de Ligne, 
 
 xxxvii. 
 
 L'Envoy, 14, 17, 51. 
 Lewis, M. G., 123. 
 Librarie at Cambridge, 47. 
 Library, A Modern, 78. 
 
 Crabbe's, 97-121. 
 
 Pleasures of a, 33. 
 
 The Scholar in his, 141. 
 
 Threshold of, 137. 
 
 Lintot's Miscellany, 73, 75. 
 Literary Laboratory, A, 193. 
 London Booksellers, The, 
 
 161, 164, 167, 208. 
 Longmans, Messrs., 161. 
 Lutrin (La), 64. 
 Lydgate, John, 4-7, 20; . 
 Lytton, Lord, 175- 
 
 MAGINN, DR., 169. 
 Major, J., 167. 
 Mallet, David, 93.
 
 212 
 
 Index. 
 
 Mansfield, Lord, 96. 
 Marche, Oliver de la, xxxiv. 
 Martial, x.-xiv. 
 Mason, F., 47. 
 McCreery, J., 153. 
 Meliador, xx. 
 Milton, John, 63. 
 Miracles of the Virgin, xix. 
 Miscellanea, 193 ct seq. 
 Mitford's Library (Rev. J.), 
 
 143- 
 
 Molinet, Jehan, xxxiii. 
 Montaigne's Essays, 203. 
 Montfaucon's Diarium, 
 
 xxvi. 
 
 Moore, Thomas, 156. 
 More, Sir Thomas, 9, xl. 
 Mufiat, Peter, 32. 
 Murray, To Mr., 140. 
 My Books, 182, 196. 
 
 NEWCOMB, THOMAS, 79. 
 Norton, The Hon. C., 155. 
 Numeister, xxx. 
 
 O FOR A BOOK ! 195. 
 Oldham, John, 71. 
 Old Story Books, 185. 
 One Volume More, 147. 
 Overbury, Sir T., 37. 
 Ovid, xv. 
 
 PARIS, FIRST BOOK PRIN- 
 TED AT, xxvii. 
 
 Parnell, Thomas, 89, 90. 
 
 Parrot, Henry, 38. 
 
 Paternoster Row, 161 note. 
 
 Pelerinage (Le) de la Vie, 
 xxii.. 201. 
 
 Person, David, 51. 
 Petit, Pierre, xxxi. 
 Petrarch's Rime, xxii. 
 Pfister, Albrecht, xxvi. 
 Pindar, Peter, 95. 
 Pliny, Histories, xxix. 
 Poets, His, 54. 
 
 Memory of Great, 163. 
 
 Pope, A., 74. 
 Person, R., xxxviii. 
 Pragmatic Sanction, From 
 
 the, 198. 
 
 Prestwich, Edmund, xxxvii. 
 Priestley's Study (Dr.), 153. 
 Prince, J. C., 193. 
 Printer, To the, 58. 
 Prison Thoughts, 198. 
 Procter, B. W., 196. 
 Publisher, I Cannot Get a, 
 
 189. 
 Pynson, R., xxxvi., 23. 
 
 RABELAIS, F., 15. 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 26. 
 Ralph, J., 92. 
 Randolph, Thomas, 50. 
 Reader, To the, 46. 
 Readers, To the, 15. 
 Rich, Barnabe, 25. 
 Roman de la Rose, xxi., 
 
 xxxiv. 
 
 Roscoe, W., 137. 
 Roxburghe Club, The, 139, 
 
 i45, i?6- 
 
 SAINT GEORGE, Famous 
 
 History of, 34. 
 Scholar in his Library, 141.
 
 Index. 
 
 213 
 
 Scholar's Library, A, 197. 
 Scott, Sir Walter, 149, 207. 
 Shakespeare, To, 38-42. 
 Sheridan, Thomas, 72. 
 Shirley, James, 53. 
 Shyp ofFolys, g. 
 Sidney, Sir P., 203. 
 Simmons, B., 170. 
 Solomon, Books of, 57. 
 Souls of Books, The, 170. 
 Southey, R., 142. 
 Speculum Salutis, xviii. 
 Spenser, E., 26, 27. 
 Spira, V,, and J. de, xxviii., 
 
 xxix. 
 
 Stubbes, P., 31. 
 Student, A Newly Married, 
 
 9- 
 
 Surrey, Earl of, 9. 
 Sweynheim and Pannartz, 
 
 xx vi. 
 Swift, Dean, 72. 
 
 TAYLOR, JOHN, 44-47. 
 Thomson, R., 146. 
 Threshold of my Library, 
 137, 206. 
 
 Tickell, Thomas, 85. 
 Timperley's Songs of the 
 
 Press, 205. 
 Top, Alexander, 35. 
 Toraqueau, A., 195. 
 Townsend, C. Hare, 147. 
 Trapp, John, 57, 203. 
 
 VALDERAS, ARCEDIANO DE, 
 
 xxxii. 
 
 Vaughan, Henry, 62, 63, 203 . 
 Verard, Antoine, xxxiv. 
 Verdict of the Book, The, 
 
 21. 
 
 Voiture, 74. 
 
 WADE, R. W., xxvii. 
 Waller, Edmund, 59. 
 Wenceslas de Brabant, xx. 
 Westall's Milton, 169. 
 Wild, Robert, 60. 
 Wolcott, Dr. J., 95. 
 Wordsworth, W., 143, 192. 
 Wynkyn de Worde, xxxv., 
 xxxvi., n, 14. 
 
 YOUNG, EDWARD, 92. 
 
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