De Amicitiis

Though care and strife     Elsewhere be rife,     Upon my word I do not heed 'em;     In bed I lie     With books hard by,     And with increasing zest I read 'em.     Propped up in bed,     So much I've read     Of musty tomes that I've a headful     Of tales and rhymes     Of ancient times,     Which, wife declares, are "simply dreadful!"     They give me joy     Without alloy;     And isn't that what books are made for?     And yet--and yet--     (Ah, vain regret!)     I would to God they all were paid for!     No festooned cup     Filled foaming up     Can lure me elsewhere to confound me;     Sweeter than wine     This love of mine     For these old books I see around me!     A plague, I say,     On maidens gay;     I'll weave no compliments to tell 'em!     Vain fool I were,     Did I prefer     Those dolls to these old friends in vellum!     At dead of night     My chamber's bright     Not only with the gas that's burning,     But with the glow     Of long ago,--     Of beauty back from eld returning.     Fair women's looks     I see in books,     I see them, and I hear their laughter,--     Proud, high-born maids,     Unlike the jades     Which men-folk now go chasing after!     Herein again     Speak valiant men     Of all nativities and ages;     I hear and smile     With rapture while     I turn these musty, magic pages.     The sword, the lance,     The morris dance,     The highland song, the greenwood ditty,     Of these I read,     Or, when the need,     My Miller grinds me grist that's gritty!     When of such stuff     We've had enough,     Why, there be other friends to greet us;     We'll moralize     In solemn wise     With Plato or with Epictetus.     Sneer as you may,     I'm proud to say     That I, for one, am very grateful     To Heaven, that sends     These genial friends     To banish other friendships hateful!     And when I'm done,     I'd have no son     Pounce on these treasures like a vulture;     Nay, give them half     My epitaph,     And let them share in my sepulture.     Then, when the crack     Of doom rolls back     The marble and the earth that hide me,     I'll smuggle home     Each precious tome,     Without a fear my wife shall chide me!