The Flea, Though He Kill None, He

Solitude Is A Torment Which Is Not Threatened In Hell Itself.

To Roam Giddily, And Be Everywhere But At Home, Such Freedom Doth A Banishment Become.

More Than Kisses, Letters Mingle Souls.

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

Then Love Is Sin, And Let Me Sinful Be.