The Bibliomaniac's Bride

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 run 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!