| UNTO my books so good to turn | |
| Far ends of tired days; | |
| It half endears the abstinence, | |
| And pain is missed in praise. | |
| |
| As flavors cheer retarded guests | |
| With banquetings to be, | |
| So spices stimulate the time | |
| Till my small library. | |
| |
| It may be wilderness without, | |
| Far feet of failing men, | |
| But holiday excludes the night, | |
| And it is bells within. | |
| |
| I thank these kinsmen of the shelf; | |
| Their countenances bland | |
| Enamour in prospective, | |
| And satisfy, obtained. |
