“One thing is wanting,” said a friend; “for though
The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,
You lack a library, dear sir, for show,
If not for use.”
“’Tis true, but zounds!” replied the squire with glee,
“The lumber-room in yonder northern wing
(I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be
The very thing.
“I’ll have it fitted up without delay
With shelves and presses of the newest mode,
And rarest wood, befitting every way
A squire’s abode.
“And when the whole is ready, I’ll dispatch
My coachman—a most knowing fellow—down
To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch
Of books in town.”
But ere the library was half supplied
With all its pomps of cabinet and shelf,
The booby squire repented him, and cried
Unto himself:
“This room is much more roomy than I thought;
Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice
To fill it, and would cost, however bought,
A plaguey price.
“Now, as I only want them for their looks,
It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,
And cost me next to nothing, if the books
Were made of wood.
“It shall be so, I’ll give the shaven deal
A coat of paint—a colorable dress,
To look like calf or vellum and conceal
Its nakedness.