I sought but found no bookshops there.
What little hope have books to dwell
'Twixt Flemish mud and German shell?
Yet have I still upon my back,
Hid safely in my haversack,
A tattered Horace, printed fine
(Anchor and Fish, the printer's sign),
Of sage advice, of classic wit;
Much wisdom have I gained from it.
And should I suffer sad mischance