Whether in pity, or in ire,
Sometimes I'm seated next the fire;
So very close, I pant for breath,
In pure  scorch'd to death.
Content I feel her kindness kill,
I only beg to make my Will;
But still in all I do, or say,
This nusance  in the way;
O'er which to step I'm much to lazy,
And too obliging to be easy.