This World To Me Is Like A

Gloucester, We Have Done Deeds Of Charity, Made Peace Of Enmity, Fair Love Of Hate, Between These Swelling Wrong-incensed Peers.

There Is An Old Poor Man,. . . . Oppress'd With Two Weak Evils, Age And Hunger.

And Nature Must Obey Necessity.

But Love That Comes Too Late, Like A Remorseful Pardon Slowly Carried, To The Great Sender Turns A Sour Offense, Crying, 'that's Good That's Gone.

Weariness Can Snore Upon The Flint When Resting Sloth Finds The Down Pillow Hard.