I Have Heard Of Some Kind Of

Be Wise As Thou Art Cruel, Do Not Press My Tongue-tied Patience With Too Much Disdain: Lest Sorrow Lend Me Words And Words Express, The Manner Of My Pity-wanting Pain.

Though Fortune's Malice Overthrow My State, My Mind Exceeds The Compass Of Her Wheel.

Where Souls Do Couch On Flowers We'll Hand In Hand.

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.