The Women-Folk Are Like To Books,-- Most Pleasing To The Eye, Whereon If Anybody Looks He Feels Disposed To Buy. I Hear That Many Are For Sale,-- Those That Record No Dates, And Such Editions As Regale The View With Colored Plates. Of Every Quality And Grade And Size They May Be Found,-- Quite Often Beautifully Made, As Often Poorly Bound. Now, As For Me, Had I My Choice, I'd Choose No Folio Tall, But Some Octavo To Rejoice My Sight And Heart Withal,-- As Plump And Pudgy As A Snipe; Well Worth Her Weight In Gold; Of Honest, Clean, Conspicuous Type, And Just The Size To Hold! With Such A Volume For My Wife How Should I Keep And Con! How Like A Dream Should Run My Life Unto Its Colophon! Her Frontispiece Should Be More Fair Than Any Colored Plate; Blooming With Health, She Would Not Care To Extra-Illustrate. And In Her Pages There Should Be A Wealth Of Prose And Verse, With Now And Then A Jeu D'Esprit,-- But Nothing Ever Worse! Prose For Me When I Wished For Prose, Verse When To Verse Inclined,-- Forever Bringing Sweet Repose To Body, Heart, And Mind. Oh, I Should Bind This Priceless Prize In Bindings Full And Fine, And Keep Her Where No Human Eyes Should See Her Charms, But Mine! With Such A Fair Unique As This What Happiness Abounds! Who--Who Could Paint My Rapturous Bliss, My Joy Unknown To Lowndes!