So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.
Of seeming arms to make a short essay, Then hasten to be drunk, the business of the day.
War is the trade of Kings.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories