Marcus Varro

Marcus Varro went up and down The places where old books were sold; He ransacked all the shops in town For pictures new and pictures old. He gave the folk of earth no peace; Snooping around by day and night, He plied the trade in Rome and Greece Of an insatiate Grangerite. 'Pictures!' was evermore his cry -- 'Pictures of old or recent date,' And pictures only would he buy Wherewith to 'extra-illustrate.' Full many a tome of ancient type And many a manuscript he took, For nary purpose but to swipe Their pictures for some other book. While Marcus Varro plied his fad There was not in the shops of Greece A book or pamphlet to be had That was not minus frontispiece. Nor did he hesitate to ply His baleful practices at home; It was not possible to buy A perfect book in all of Rome! What must the other folk have done -- Who, glancing o'er the books they bought, Came soon and suddenly upon The vandalism Varro wrought! How must their cheeks have flamed with red -- How did their hearts with choler beat! We can imagine what they said -- We can imagine, not repeat! Where are the books that Varro made -- The pride of dilettante Rome -- With divers portraitures inlaid Swiped from so many another tome? The worms devoured them long ago -- O wretched worms! ye should have fed Not on the books 'extended' so, But on old Varro's flesh instead! Alas, that Marcus Varro lives And is a potent factor yet! Alas, that still his practice gives Good men occasion for regret! To yonder bookstall, pri'thee, go, And by the 'missing' prints and plates And frontispieces you shall know He lives, and 'extra-illustrates'!