THE COLLECTOR TO HIS LIBRARY BROWN Books of mine, who never yet Have caused me anguish or regret,— Save when some fiend in human shape That you, whom I have loved so long, may touch Some Croesus-if there should be such To buy you, and that you may so From Croesus unto Croesus go Till that inevitable day When comes your moment of decay. This, more than other good, I pray. THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE WHIL HILE cynic CHARLES still trimm'd "Twixt Querouaille and Castlemaine, I knew the GEORGES, first and last; I lost the Third that owned me when Whose Greek is sounder than their hose; He lov'd old Books and nappy ale, Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where In some Collector's sepulchre ! Must I be torn herefrom and thrown With frontispiece and colophon! With vagrant E's, and P's, and O's, The spoil of plunder'd Folios! With scraps and snippets that to ME Nay, rather, FRIEND, this favour grant me: CHELTENHAM, Sept. 31, 1792. "BUY, THE WATER OF GOLD UY,-who'll buy ?" In the market-place, Out of the market din and clatter, The quack with his puckered persuasive face Patters away in the ancient patter. "Buy,-who'll buy? In this flask I hold In this little flask that I tap with my stick, sirIs the famed, infallible Water of Gold,— The One, Original, True Elixir ! "Buy,-who'll buy? There's a maiden there,- "Buy,—who'll buy? Are you old and gray? Drink but of this, and in less than a minute, Lo! you will dance like the flowers in May, Chirp and chirk like a new-fledged linnet! "Buy,-who'll buy? Is a baby ill? Drop but a drop of this in his throttle, Straight he will gossip and gorge his fill, Brisk as a burgher over a bottle! "Here is wealth for your life,-if you will but ask; Here is health for your limb, without lint or lotion; Here is all that you lack, in this tiny flask; And the price is a couple of silver groschen! Buy,-who'll buy ?" So the tale runs on: And still in the Great World's market-places The Quack, with his quack catholicon, Finds ever his crowd of upturned faces; For he plays on our hearts with his pipe and drum, On our vague regret, on our weary yearning; For he sells the thing that never can come, Or the thing that has vanished, past returning. |