Pardon, Gentles All, The Flat Unraised Spirits

Would I Were In An Alehouse In London.

Rumour Is A Pipe Blown By Surmises, Jealousies, Conjectures And Of So Easy And So Plain A Stop That The Blunt Monster With Uncounted Heads, The Still-discordant Wavering Multitude, Can Play Upon It.

When I Waked, I Cried To Dream Again

Plain And Not Honest Is Too Harsh A Style.

...lest Too Light Winning Make The Prize Light.