Go then, and pass that dangerous bourn Whence never book can back return: And when you find, condemned, despised, Neglected, blamed, and criticised, Abuse from all who read you fall, (If haply you be read at all) Sorely will you your folly sigh at, And wish for me, and home, and quiet.

Assuming now a conjuror’s office, I Thus on your future fortune prophesy:⁠— Soon as your novelty is o’er, And you are young and new no more, In some dark dirty corner thrown, Mouldy with damps, with cobwebs strown, Your leaves shall be the bookworm’s prey; Or sent to chandler-shop away, And doomed to suffer public scandal, Shall line the trunk, or wrap the candle!