If paint be dry, eyes cannot watch the mark.
Now will he gaze under a mighty wall,
And wish his drying paint were that kind of tome
As eyes call bonnie, when they watch alone.
Graffit'd wall, that it were, O, that it were
An open et cetera, though a public poem!
Footsteps on, good night: I'll to my truckle-bed;
This painted wall is too hot for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?

Dryandra Pig-Ment