I Wonder That You Will Still Be

Thou Art An Elm, My Husband, I A Vine.

I Will Kill Thee A Hundred And Fifty Ways.

The Bird That Hath Been Limed In A Bush, With Trembling Wings Misdoubteth Every Bush.

He That Commends Me To Mine Own Content Commends Me To The Thing I Cannot Get. I To The World Am Like A Drop Of Water That In The Ocean Seeks Another Drop, Who, Falling There To Find His Fellow Forth, Unseen, Inquisitive, Confounds Himself: So I, To Find A Mother And A Brother, In Quest Of Them, Unhappy, Lose Myself.

To Show Our Simple Skill, That Is The True Beginning Of Our End.