How hard, when those who do not wish To lend–that’s lose–their books, Are snared by anglers–folks that fish With literary hooks; Who call and take some favorite tome, But never read it through; They thus complete their sett at home, By making one of you. I, of my Spenser quite bereft, Last winter sore was shaken; Of Lamb I’ve but a quarter left, Nor could I save my Bacon. They picked my Locke, to me far more Than Bramah’s patent worth; And now my losses I deplore, Without a Home on earth. Even Glover’s works I cannot put My frozen...