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Poem	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!
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