Truth nescient lies,
Awaiting for a hand to underline,
As childlike trials
Amuse it to the point of idleness,
And adult dance
Embarrasses the artist’s chance,
And slender science
Collapses for the wont of a reply,
And God’s allotted
Cannot convert a bullied thought,
And love inured
Has laboured less than it assures,
And hate yielded
Will not convince with its appeals,
And friends addressed
Have done so with no subtleness
As enemies proceed
To seek their trade with subtlety,
And Lords imbibed
With only their importance, sigh,
Whilst our lowly venture
Tempts a draughtsman’s mention.
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