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