Could I but paint the things around,
Then men would know where truth is found :
But human hands full treacherous prove,
E’en when one's heart is filled with love
Of all one sees, each hour, each day.
Then let my readers hold away
Harsh censure, and with kindly heart
Take will for deed, in kindly part.
In pity spare us when do our best
To make as much waste paper as the rest.