Good God! how many dungboats full of fruitless works do they yearly foist on his Majesty's subjects; how many hundred reams of foolish, profane, and senseless ballads do they quarterly disperse abroad.--G. WITHER (1632). TO LEIGH HUNT, ON AN OMISSION IN HIS 'FEAST OF THE POETS' Leigh Hunt! thou stingy man, Leigh Hunt! May Charon swamp thee in his punt, For having, in thy list, forgotten So many poets scarce half rotten, Who did expect of thee at least A few cheese-parings from thy _Feast_. Hast thou no pity on the men Who suck (as babes their tongues) the pen, Until it leaves no traces where It lighted, and seems dipped in air? At last be generous, Hunt! and prithee Refresh (and gratis too) in Lethe Yonder sick Muse, surcharged with poppies And heavier presentation-copies. She _must_ grow livelier, and the river More potent in effect than ever. W. S. LANDOR. OUR MASTER, MELEAGER Our master, Meleager, he who framed The first Anthology and daintiest, Mated each minstrel with a flower, and named For each the blossom that beseemed him best. 'Twas then as now; garlands were somewhat rare, Candidates many: one in doleful strain Lamented thus, 'This is a sad affair; How shall I face my publisher again? Lacking some emblem suitable for me, My book's undone; I shall not sell a copy.' 'Take courage, son,' quoth Phoebus, 'there must be Somewhere or other certainly a poppy.' R. GARNETT. 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. LORD BYRON. THAT INVENTION OF THE ENEMY--AN ABRIDGEMENT