[thine] Face Is Not Worth Sunburning.

You See Me Here, You Gods, A Poor Old Man, As Full Of Grief As Age; Wretched In Both.

There Is No Slander In An Allowed Fool, Though He Do Nothing But Rail.

The Trust I Have Is In Mine Innocence, And Therefore Am I Bold And Resolute.

A Hand As Fruitful As The Land That Feeds Us; His Dew Falls Everywhere.

I Could Be Well Content To Entertain The Lag-end Of My Life With Quiet Hours.