I have served Literature in my time, but now Literature is in my service.
But shall I pay for what comes dear,
To the pale scribes who write,—
For news, and jokes, and stories queer?
Walker! my friends, not quite!
Since filchers may have leave to live,
And vend their "borrowed" budget,
For all my "notions" nix I'll give,
Then sell them as I trudge it.
My traffic is (news) sheets. My father named me AUTOLYCUS, who, being as I am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With paste and scissors I procured this caparison; and my revenue is the uninquiring public; gallows and gaol are too powerful on the highway; picking and treadmilling are terrors to burglars; but in my line of theft I sleep free from the thought of them. A prize! a prize!...