The women folk are like to books —
Most pleasing to the eye,
Whereon if anybody looks
He feels disposed to buy.
I hear that many are for sale —
Those that record no dates,
And such editions as regale
The view with colored plates.
Of every quality and grade
And size they may be found —
Quite often beautifully made,
As often poorly bound.
Now, as for me, had I my choice,
I'd choose no folio tall,
But some octavo to rejoice
My sight and heart withal.
As plump and pudgy as a snipe —
Well worth her weight in gold,
Of honest, clean, conspicuous type,
And just the size to hold!
With such a volume for my wife,
How should I keep and con?
How like a dream should speed my life
Unto its colophon!
Her frontispiece should be more fair
Than any colored plate;
Blooming with health she would not care
To extra-illustrate.
And in her pages there should be
A wealth of prose and verse,
With now and then a jeu d'esprit —
But nothing ever worse!
Prose for me when I wished for prose,
Verse, when to verse inclined —
Forever bringing sweet repose
To body, heart, and mind.
Oh, I should bind this priceless prize
In bindings full and fine,
And keep her where no human eyes
Should see her charms, but mine!
With such a fair unique as this,
What happiness abounds!
Who — who could paint my rapturous bliss,
My joy unknown to Lowndes!