I Paint The Cot, As

In General Satire, Every Man Perceives A Slight Attack, Yet Neither Fears Nor Grieves.

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.

I Grant Indeed That Fields And Flocks Have Charms, For Him That Gazes Or For Him That Farms.

With Awe, Around These Silent Walks I Tread; These Are The Lasting Mansions Of The Dead.

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