Classic Poem

" Thy Books are Furniture"

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit?
The flow'r of learning, and the bloom of wit.
Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow,
And Epictetus is a perfect beau.
How fit for thee, bound up in crimson too,
Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view!
Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard
That science should be purchased by the yard,
And Tonson, turned upholsterer, send home
The gilded leather to fit up thy room.
If not to some peculiar ends designed,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind,
Or is at best a secondary aim,
A chase for sport alone, and not for game.
If so, sure they who the mere volume prize
But love the thicket where the quarry lies.
On buying books Lorenzo long was bent,
But found at length that it reduced his rent.
His farms were flown, when lo! a sale comes on,
A choice collection! what is to be done?
He sells his last, for he the whole will buy,
Sells ev'n his house; nay, wants whereon to lie,
So high the generous ardour of the man
For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran.
When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk,
Lorenzo signed the bargain — with his mark.
Unlearned men of books assume the care
As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair.
Not in his authors' liveries alone
Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown:
Editions various, at high prices bought,
Inform the world what Codrus would be thought,
And to this cost another must succeed
To pay a sage, who says that he can read,
Who titles knows, and indexes has seen,
But leaves to Chesterfield what lies between,
Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense,
And humbly is contented with their sense.