The Let-alone Lies Not In Your Good

Music Can Minister To Minds Diseased, Pluck From The Memory A Rooted Sorrow, Raze Out The Written Troubles Of The Brain, And With Its Sweet Oblivious Antidote, Cleanse The Full Bosom Of All Perilous Stuff That Weighs Upon The Heart.

Ay, But Hearken, Sir; Though The Chameleon Love Can Feed On The Air, I Am One That Am Nourished By My Victuals, And Would Fain Have Meat.

Two May Keep Counsel Putting One Away!

I, Thus Neglecting Worldly Ends, All Dedicated To Closeness And The Bettering Of My Mind.

You Speak Like A Green Girl / Unsifted In Such Perilous Circumstances.