I Paint The Cot, As

Better To Love Amiss Than Nothing To Have Loved.

Life Is Not Measured By The Time We Live.

The Wife Was Pretty, Trifling, Childish, Weak; She Could Not Think, But Would Not Cease To Speak.

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

I Paint The Cot, As Truth Will Paint It, And As Bards Will Not.