I like to read confessions br As lengthy as Rousseau's, br With all their slow processions br Of innumerable woes. br br I revel in Cellini, br Augustine, Amiel br Dumas's Memoirs so sheeny, br Lies no one else could tell. br br I love each peccadillo br Of honest Mr. Pepys, br Confided to his pillow br Before his conscience sleeps. br br But I prefer in verses br To hand my life to time: br You may forgive what worse is br For tickle of the rhyme.