I...kisss The Tender Inward Of Thy Hand.

Dreams Are The Children Of Idled Minds.

Tut, Man, One Fire Burns Out Another's Burning; One Pain Is Less'ned By Another's Anguish; Turn Giddy, And Be Holp By Backward Turning; One Desperate Grief Cures With Another's Languish.

Who Would Be So Mocked With Glory, Or To Live But In A Dream Of Friendship, To Have His Pomp And All What State Compounds But Only Painted, Like His Varnished Friends?

For Murder, Though It Have No Tongue, Will Speak With Most Miraculous Organ.

O, I Have Suffered With Those That I Saw Suffer!