"*
* Thorow earth and waters deepe,
The pen by skill doth passe:
And featly nyps the worldes abuse,
And shoes us in a glasse,
The vertu and the vice
Of every wight alyve;
The honey comb that bee doth make
Is not so sweet in hyve,
As are the golden leves
That drop from poet's head!
Which doth surmount our common talke
As farre as dross doth lead.
Churchyard.
I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of
the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my
head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to
close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto,
but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed: and
it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to
the library two or three times since, and have endeavored to draw it
into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this
rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of
those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this
moment been able to discover.
THE END
.
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