Бен Джонсон (Ben Jonson)

To My Bookseller

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 clerklike 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 Buckler's-bury, there 'twill well.