I Paint The Cot, As Truth Will

See Time Has Touched Me Gently In His Race, And Left No Odious Furrows In My Face.

But Jest Apart--what Virtue Canst Thou Trace In That Broad Trim That Hides Thy Sober Face? Does That Long-skirted Drab, That Over-nice And Formal Clothing, Prove A Scorn Of Vice? Then For Thine Accent--what In Sound Can Be So Void Of Grace As Dull Monotony?

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

Who Often Reads, Will Sometimes Wish To Write.

There Is No Mind So Weak And Powerless As Not To Have Its Inclinations, And None So Guarded As To Be Without Its Prepossessions.