But I will read your books, though,
Said she: you’ll leave me some, Philip?
Not I, replied he, a volume.
This is the way with you all, I perceive, high and low together.
Women must read, as if they didn’t know all beforehand:
Weary of plying the pump, we turn to the running water,
And the running spring will needs have a pump built upon it.
Weary and sick of our books, we come to repose in your eyelight,
As to the woodland and water, the freshness and beauty of Nature.
Lo, you will talk, forsooth, of things we are sick to the death of.