8
And turning o'er amongst the works
Which it contained of various sorts,
Again to Tom he said—
"I've books to please the grave or gay,
Come let me sell you one to day,
Here's Phœbe the Miller's Maid;
"And here is Poems by Travenion,
Likewise the Afflicted Man's Companion,
The best copy extant yet."
"Nay, nay," says Tom, I know it's not,
I have a better copy got,
Therefore I do not want it."
The Bookman says, “That cannot be,
If you a better shew to me,
Gratis you shall have mine,"
"Agreed!" says Tom," a bargain be it;
And if you're not pleas'd when you see it,
You welcome are to mine."
Tom then the room door opened wide,
And pointing o'er to the bedside,
"Behold!" said he, "there's one
Who has for thirty years, I ween,
The Afflicted Man's Companion been."
The Bookman cries, "I'm done!
"I own, I own I've lost my bet,
Nor will I hestiate to pay't;
But rest assur'd," said he,
"Too long that work has lain in sheets,
If it were mine, ere many weeks
It bound in boards should he!"
