by William Somervile
Wise Socrates had built a farm,
Little, convenient, snug, and warm,
Secured from rain and wind:
A gallant whispered in his ear,
Shall the great Socrates live here,
To this mean cell confined?
The furniture's my chiefest care,
Replied the sage; here's room to spare,
Sweet sir! for I and you;
When this with faithful friends is filled,
An ampler palace I shall build;
Till then this cot must do.
Last updated January 07, 2018