Love, Which Teacheth Me That Thou And

Love Is Merely A Madness, And, I Tell You, Deserves As Well A Dark House And A Whip As Madmen Do.

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

By My Soul I Swear, There Is No Power In The Tongue Of Man To Alter Me.

Get Thee Glass Eyes, And Like A Scurvy Politician, Seem To See The Things Thou Dost Not.

I Have Heard It Said There Is An Art Which In Their Piedness Shares With Great Creating Nature.