e others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.

THE BOOK-PLATE'S PETITION.

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE TEMPLE.

While cynic CHARLES still trimm'd the vane
'Twixt _Querouaille_ and _Castlemaine_,
In days that shocked JOHN EVELYN,
My First Possessor fixed me in.
In days of _Dutchmen_, and of frost,
The narrow sea with JAMES I cross'd,
Returning when once more began
The Age of _Saturn_ and of ANNE.
I am a part of all the past;
I knew the GEORGES, first and last;
I have been oft where else was none
Save the great wig of ADDISON;
And seen on shelves beneath me grope
The little eager form of POPE.
I lost the Third that owned me when
French NOAILLES fled at Dettingen;
The year JAMES WOLFE surpris'd Quebec,
The Fourth in hunting broke his neck;
The day that WILLIAM HOGARTH dy'd,
The Fifth one found me in Cheapside.
This was a _Scholar_, one of those
Whose _Greek_ is sounder than their _hose_;
He lov'd old Books and nappy ale,
So liv'd at Streatham, next to THRALE.
'Twas there this stain of grease I boast
Was made by Dr. JOHNSON'S toast.
(He did it, as I think, for Spite;
My Master call'd him _Jacobite_!)
And now that I so long to-day
Have rested _post discrimina_,
Safe in the brass-wir'd book-case where
I watch'd the Vicar's whit'ning hair,
Must I these travell'd bones inter
In some _Collector's_ sepulchre!
Must I be torn herefrom and thrown
With _frontispiece_ and _colophon_!
With vagrant _E's_, and _I's_, and _O's_,
The spoil of plunder'd _Folios_!
With scraps and snippets that to ME
Are naught but _kitchen company_!
Nay, rather, FRIEND, this favour grant me:
Tear me at once; _but don't transplant me_.

Cheltenham,
_Sept. 31, 1792._

PALOMYDES.

Him best in all the dim Arthuriad,
Of lovers of fair women, him I prize,--
The Pagan Palomydes. Never glad
Was he with sweetness of his lady's eyes,
Nor joy he had.

But, unloved ever, still must love the same,
And riding ever through a lonely world,
Whene'er on adverse shield or crest he came,
Against the danger desperately hurled,
Crying her name.

So I, who strove to You I may not earn,
Methinks, am come unto so high a place,
That though from hence I can but vainly