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Poem	I know the face of Falsehood and her Tongue Honeyed with unction, Plausible with guile, Are dear to men, whom count me not among, That owe their daily credit to her smile; Such have been succoured out of great distress By her contriving, if accounts be true: Their deference now above the board, I guess, Dishcharges what beneath the board is due. As for myself, I'd liefer lack her aid Than eat her presence; let this building fall: But let me never lift my latch, afraid To hear her simpering accents in the hall, Nor force an entrance past mephitic airs Of stale patchoulie hanging on my stairs.
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