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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530190" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Book-Worm</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come hither, Boy, we'll hunt to Day<br>The Book-Worm, ravening Beast of Prey,<br>Produc'd by Parent Earth, at odds<br>(As Fame reports it) with the Gods.<br>Him frantick Hunger wildly drives<br>Against a thousand Authors Lives:<br>Thro' all the Fields of Wit he flies;<br>Dreadful his Head with clust'ring Eyes,<br>With Horns without, and Tusks within,<br>And Scales to serve him for a Skin.<br>Observe him nearly, lest he climb<br>To wound the Bards of antient Time,<br>Or down the Vale of Fancy go<br>To tear some modern Wretch below:<br>On ev'ry Corner fix thine Eye,<br>Or ten to one he slips thee by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See where his Teeth a Passage eat:<br>We'll rouse him from the deep Retreat.<br>But who the Shelter's forc'd to give?<br>'Tis Sacred Virgil as I live!<br>From Leaf to Leaf, from Song to Song,<br>He draws the tadpole Form along,<br>He mounts the gilded Edge before,<br>He's up, he scuds the Cover o'er,<br>He turns, he doubles, there he past,<br>And here we have him, caught at last.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Insatiate Brute, whose Teeth abuse<br>The sweetest Servants of the Muse.<br>(Nay never offer to deny,<br>I took thee in the Fact to fly.)<br>His Roses nipt in ev'ry Page,<br>My poor Anacreon mourns thy Rage.<br>By thee my Ovid wounded lies;<br>By thee my Lesbia's Sparrow dies:<br>Thy rabid Teeth have half destroy'd<br>The Work of Love in Biddy Floyd,<br>They rent Belinda's Locks away,<br>And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay. <br>For all, for ev'ry single Deed,<br>Relentless Justice bids thee bleed.<br>Then fall a Victim to the Nine,<br>My self the Priest, my Desk the Shrine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,<br>To pile a sacred Altar here;<br>Hold, Boy, thy Hand out-run thy Wit,<br>You reach'd the Plays that D---s writ;<br>You reach'd me Ph---s rustick Strain;<br>Pray take your mortal Bards again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come bind the Victim,—there he lies,<br>And here between his num'rous Eyes<br>This venerable Dust I lay,<br>From Manuscripts just swept away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Goblet in my Hand I take,<br>(For the Libation's yet to make)<br>A Health to Poets! all their Days<br>May they have Bread, as well as Praise;<br>Sense may they seek, and less engage<br>In Papers fill'd with Party-Rage.<br>But if their Riches spoil their Vein<br>Ye Muses, make them poor again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now bring the Weapon, yonder Blade,<br>With which my tuneful Pens are made.<br>I strike the Scales that arm thee round,<br>And twice and thrice I print the Wound;<br>The sacred Altar floats with red,<br>And now he dies, and now he's dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How like the Son of Jove I stand,<br>This Hydra stretch'd beneath my Hand!<br>Lay bare the Monster's Entrails here,<br>To see what Dangers threat the Year:<br>Ye Gods! what Sonnets on a Wench?<br>What lean Translations out of French?<br>'Tis plain, this Lobe is so unsound,<br>S--- prints, before the Months go round.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But hold, before I close the Scene, <br>The sacred Altar shou'd be clean.<br>Oh had I Sh---ll's Second Bays,<br>Or T---! thy pert and humble Lays!<br>(Ye Pair, forgive me, when I vow<br>I never miss'd your Works till now)<br>I'd tear the Leaves to wipe the Shrine,<br>(That only way you please the Nine)<br>But since I chance to want these two,<br>I'll make the Songs of D---y do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rent from the Corps, on yonder Pin,<br>I hang the Scales that brac't it in;<br>I hang my studious Morning Gown,<br>And write my own Inscription down.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">‘This Trophy from the Python won,<br>‘This Robe, in which the Deed was done,<br>‘These, Parnell glorying in the Feat,<br>‘Hung on these Shelves, the Muses Seat.<br>‘Here Ignorance and Hunger found<br>‘Large Realms of Wit to ravage round;<br>‘Here Ignorance and Hunger fell;<br>‘Two Foes in one I sent to Hell.<br>‘Ye Poets, who my Labours see,<br>‘Come share the Triumph all with me!<br>‘Ye Criticks! born to vex the Muse,<br>‘Go mourn the grand Ally you lose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Parnell">Thomas Parnell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=530190" data-title="The Book-Worm de Thomas Parnell" data-description="Come hither, Boy, we'll hunt to Day
The Book-Worm, ravening Beast of Prey,
Produc'd by Parent Earth, at odds
(As Fame reports it) with the Gods.
Him frantick Hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand Authors Lives:
Thro' all the Fields of Wit he fli..."></div>
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