There Is Not One Wise Man In

The Weariest And Most Loathed Worldly Life, That Age, Ache, Penury And Imprisonment Can Lay On Nature Is A Paradise, To What We Fear Of Death.

Hopeless And Helpless Doth Egeon Wend, But To Procrastinate His Liveless End.

No, No, I Am But Shadow Of Myself: You Are Deceived, My Substance Is Not Here.

Look, What Envious Streaks Do Lace The Severing Clouds In Yonder East! Night's Candles Are Burnt Out, And Jocund Day Stands Tip-toe On The Misty Mountain-tops.

Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your Soul, That Not Your Trespass But My Madness Speaks.