To my Book-seller

I'ave common made my book; 'tis very true;
But I'd not have thee prostitute it, too;
Nor show it barefac'd on the open stall
To tempt the buyer: nor poast it on each wall
And corner poast close underneath the Play
That must be acted at Black-Friers that day:
Nor fee some Herring-cryer for a groat
To voice it up and down, with tearing throat.
Nor bid thy 'prentice read it and admire,
That all i'th' shop may what he reads enquire.
No: profer'd wares do smel: I'd have thee know
Pride scorns to beg: Modestie fears to wooe.