And much as Art has play'd the Infidel And robb'd me of my Royalties--Ah, well, I often wonder what the Women read One half as clever as the Stuff I sell! XCVI Yet Ah, that Spring should come to bring our Woes! That Christmas Season's Sales should ever close! The Book whose praises loud the Critic sang, Is not the one that sells the most, God knows! XCVII Would but these Book Reviewers ever yield One glimpse--if dimly, yet indeed, reveal'd Of what the fainting Traveller can read Worth reading--but the Critic's eyes are seal'd. XCVIII Would but some winged Angel bring the News Of Critic who _reads_ Books that he Reviews! And make the stern Reviewer do as well Himself, before he Meed of Praise refuse! XCIX Ah, Love! could you and I perchance succeed In boiling down the Million Books we read Into One Book, and edit that a Bit-- There'd be a WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE, indeed! * * * * * C Oh, rising Author, read Me once again Before my Memory gradually wane! How oft hereafter you may look for me In this same Library--and look in vain! CI And when, dear Reader, _you_ shall chance to spend A night within The Hall of Fame--attend! If, in that blissful call, you find the Spot Where I broke in--don't turn me down, my friend! End of Project Gutenberg's The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne, by Gelett Burgess