I Would We Were All Of One

I Understand A Fury In Your Words But Not Your Words.

We Make Trifles Of Terrors, Ensconcing Ourselves Into Seeming Knowledge, When We Should Submit Ourselves To An Unknown Fear.

I Have Seen Roses Damask'd, Red And White, But No Such Roses See I In Her Cheeks.

I Pray You, In Your Letters, When You Shall These Unlucky Deeds Relate, Speak Of Me As I Am; Nothing Extenuate, Nor Set Down Aught In Malice. Then Must You Speak Of One That Loved Not Wisely But Too Well; Of One Not Easily Jealous, But Being Wrought, Perplexed In The Extreme. . .

Go To You Bosom: Knock There, And Ask Your Heart What It Doth Know.