In Shakespeare's Sonnet 48 he frets over the freedom of his beloved (the unnamed Youth) to come and go, to be stolen by another because he can't be kept under lock and key the way possessions can. It's a striking expression of love taking the form of jealous fear.
It's about a person, but as I read these lines I can't help but think of Shakespeare's work as the lost treasure. Because he couldn't lock it up, nothing prevents “vulgar thieves” (hello Oxfordians) from preying on this prize so dear.
How careful was I when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not locked up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol’n I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.