Sunday, February 22, 2009

Written in 1616

Thou that mak'st gain thy end, and wisely well,
 Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
Use mine so, too; I give thee leave. But crave,
For the luck's sake, it thus much favor have,
   To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;
 Not offer'd, as it made suit to be bought;
 Nor have my title-leaf on posts or walls,
 Or in cleft-sticks, advanced to make calls
For termers, or some clerk-like serving-man,
Who scarce can spell 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, "To My Bookseller" from Epigrams 

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