TRUTH.
Reading edition
Permit me, madame, to declare That I never will compare Eyes of yours to Starlight cold, Or your locks to Sunlight’s gold, Or your lips, I’d have you know, To the crimson Jacqueminot. Stuff like that’s all very fine When you get so much a line; Since I don’t, I scorn to tell Flattering lies. I like too well Sun and Stars and Jacqueminot To flatter them, I’d have you know.
