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 favour have,
To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;
Not offered, 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 clerk-like serving-man,
Who scarce can spell the hard names: whose knight less can.
If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,
Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill, well.