Is it a wonder I would like to build
A mammoth pile of all the books there are
And let the raging fire consume them all?
MISERS
I know of misers meaner than are those
Who lay awake at night to guard their treasure,
Which is in their possession only dust,
A sordid, useless heap of gilded dust
That might have given peace and bread to many.
The misers whom I mean are fair to see,