This Is The Short And The Long

O, How Full Of Briers Is This Working-day World!

Eternity Was In Our Lips And Eyes, Bliss In Our Brows' Bent; None Our Parts So Poor But Was A Race Of Heaven.

Roses Have Thorns, And Silver Fountains Mud; Clouds And Eclipses Stain Both Moon And Sun, And Loathsome Canker Lies In Sweetest Bud. All Men Make Faults.

Keep Thy Foot Out Of Brothels, Thy Hand Out Of Plackets, Thy Pen From Lender's Books, And Defy The Foul Fiend.

But I Will Be, A Bridegroom In My Death, And Run Into't As To A Lover's Bed.