As seen at Barbara’s Odd Ends:

Bal­lade of the Book-​​Hunter

In tor­rid heats of late July,
In March, beneath the bit­ter bise,
He book-​​hunts while the loungers fly—
He book-​​hunts, though Decem­ber freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees,
And heed­less of the pub­lic jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees—
Aldines, Bodo­nis, Elzevirs!

No dis­mal stall escapes his eye,
He turns o’er tomes of low degrees,
There soiled roman­ti­cists may lie,
Or Restora­tion come­dies;
Each tract that flut­ters in the breeze
For him is charged with hopes and fears,
In mouldy nov­els fancy sees
Aldines, Bodo­nis, Elzevirs.

With rest­less eyes that peer and spy,
Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,
In dis­mal nooks he loves to pry,
Whose motto ever more is Spes!
But ah! the fabled treaure flees;
Grown rarer with the fleet­ing years,
In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,—
Aldines, Bodo­nis, Elzevirs!

ENVOY

Prince, all the things that tease and please,—
Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,
What are they but such toys as these—
Aldines, Bodo­nis, Elzevirs?

— Andrew Lang, in Bal­lades and Verses Vain.