Words Are Grown So False, I Am

I Was Adored Once Too.

Let Me Not Live, After My Flame Lacks Oil, To Be The Snuff Of Younger Spirits.

The Teeming Autumn Big With Rich Increase, Bearing The Wanton Burden Of The Prime Like Widowed Wombs After Their Lords Decease.

The Miserable Have No Other Medicine But Only Hope.

What Wouldst Thou Do, Old Man? Think'st Thou That Duty Shall Have Dread To Speak When Power To Flattery Bows?