Classic Poem

By thy Books Outsides, most adorn'd and spruce,
We read, they may be more for Show, than Use;
Well-cover'd Books, are like well-cover'd Men,
For fine Outsides, thought to have less within;
Less for Head-Furniture, than Houshold-stuff,
Not of your Head's, but Pocket's Store, the Proof;
Their Golden Titles, Binding's Elegance,
Are all of them, you'd understand (perchance;)
You bestow Gold, instead of Time, on them,
By th' Cover's Show, for Learning, your Esteem;
You cloath in Glory each Sublime Divine,
And in your Study make ev'n Stoics Fine,
In a Fine Dress Philosophers to shine;
You with New Coverings cloath Poets too,
Who sure, so Fine elsewhere cou'd never go;
Ev'n in thy Study, Antiquaries seem,
Modish, by your Fine Outsides put on them;
The most Worn-out Historians, there we view,
Though Old within, without appearing New;
Ancients are Moderns, in their Binding there,
And Moderns newer, by their Dress appear;
There Books of Worth, by Title or by Dress;
Or by their Fine Outside's Illustriousness;
We know no more, than Men at Court we do,
By Rich Outsides, which oft Poor Insides show;
So there alike, each Quality, Sect, Sort,
Of Books appear, as Spruce Men in a Court,
Howe'r alike they in their Notions are,
In their Outsides, the same to all appear;
And for their Finery, like Courtiers too,
Are Sensless all within, without all Show,
If some have some Sense, 'tis more than you know;
Your fine good Books, your Folly testifie,
As Fools expos'd are by Good Company;
Which ne'er did to their Sense, or Morals good,
By which, their Ignorance, as more they wou'd
Conceal it, is but plainer understood;
Then fell thy Books, gain'd by so much Expence,
To show, by having fewer, the more Sense:
For by wise Friends, from whom the weak Fools can
Gain nothing, they but more Discredit gain,
Their Ignorance and Folly more explain;
To get more Shame still, by their vain Pretence
To Knowledge, but the less to prove their Sense;
You such a Lover are of Books, that you
Ne'er foil them, or their Faults will look into;
You fine Books, as fine Women Eunuchs keep,
Not to wake by them, by them but to sleep,
And keep them better, more on them bestow,
But as they are less useful too, to you;
By them, but to thy Shame, to testifie,
Rather thy Weakness, than Ability;
For more our Shame will Books, as Women grow,
As them we keep, when them we cannot know,
Our selves less able for them, by them show;
Sell your Books then, but only on the Score,
Of proving your Ability yet more;
To prove some Sense, or Knowledge, less you lack,
Sell your Books, something of them but to make.