The Monk: a romance

     Methinks, Oh! vain ill-judging Book,
 I see thee cast a wishful look,
 Where reputations won and lost are
 In famous row called Paternoster.
 Incensed to find your precious olio
 Buried in unexplored port-folio,
 You scorn the prudent lock and key,
 And pant well bound and gilt to see
 Your Volume in the window set
 Of Stockdale, Hookham, or Debrett.

            Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn
 Whence never Book can back return:
 And when you find, condemned, despised,
 Neglected, blamed, and criticised,
 Abuse from All who read you fall,
 (If haply you be read at all
 Sorely will you your folly sigh at,
 And wish for me, and home, and quiet.