Oh, what a tangled web we weave.. When first we practice to deceive.
I pretend not to be a champion of that same naked virtue called truth, to the very outrance. I can consent that her charms be hidden with a veil, were it but for decency's sake.
A rusty nail placed near a faithful compass, will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.
I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
On his bold visage middle age Had slightly pressed its signet sage, Yet had not quenched the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth; Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare, The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, Of hasty love or headlong ire.