't Was Good Advice, And Meant, My

A Great Lie Is Like A Great Fish On Dry Land; It May Fret And Fling And Make A Frightful Bother, But It Cannot Hurt You. You Have Only To Keep Still, And It Will Die Of Itself.

Hence, In These Times, Untouch'd The Pages Lie, And Slumber Out Their Immortality.

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?

Life's Bloomy Flush Was Lost.

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