Classic Poem

My little book, who shall thy champion be?
Choose thee a patron soon, or, I foresee,
Snatched to a gloomy kitchen in a trice
Thou shalt wrap dripping fish or pungent spice;
Thy clammy end the scullion shall decree;
Sayst thou that to Faustinus thou wouldst flee?
A happy choice — from ills shalt thou be free
Safe in his cedar-scented paradise,
My little book,
For bindings rich no niggard hand hath he,
But thou shalt dwell a tome of high degree
With bosses decked and many a gay device
In purple rare or scarlet dyes of price,
And critics shall not dare to mangle thee,
My little book.