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| 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 favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their sett at home, By making one of you. 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. They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah's patent worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a Home on earth. Even Glover's works I cannot put My frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my Foote, My Bunyan has been gone. 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. They still have made me slight returns, And thus my grief divide; For oh! they've cured me of my Burns, And eased my Akenside. But all I think I shall not say, Nor let my anger burn; For as they have not found me Gay, They have not left me Sterne. "Sir Walter Scott said that some of his friends were bad accountants, but excellent book-keepers." – Charles Carroll Bombaugh, Gleanings for the Curious From the Harvest-Fields of Literature, 1890 |