'--Sir John Davys.
Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books,
Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.
And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,
And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:
'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books
Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.
For man will be wrangling--for woman will fret
About anything infinitesimal small:
Like the Sage in our Plato, I'm 'anxious to get
On the side'--on the sunnier side--'of a wall.'
Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,
If only you'll leave me at peace with my Books.
And which are my books? why, 'tis much as you please,
For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,
And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,
Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song;
And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks,
'Tom Brown,' and Plotinus, they're all of them Books.
There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth;
There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;
Or good Maitre Francoys to bring one to earth,
If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:
There's Muller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks,
There is Tylor on Totems, there's all sorts of Books.
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