Of making many books there is no end-
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I.
Thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend
When only one is shining in the sky.
Books cannot always please, however good;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
To be great is to be misunderstood,
The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans.
The Moving Finger writes, and having writ,
I never write as funny as I can.
Remote, unfriendly, studious let me sit
And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
Go, lovely Rose, that lives its little hour!
Go, little booke! and let who will be clever!
Roll on! From yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moon and I could keep this up forever.
