Don’t be affear’d;
my Bard is worse than my bite;
from first night to twelfth,
and beyond
a pond of flesh?
Pray, tarry not-
“Who writes this rot?”
I cans’t not tell
If all is well
that endeth such –
It is all too much a do.
Let loose the dogs
of Waterloo,
and if you
are waiting,
nothing will come.