Ready To Go But Never To Return.

Or Art Thou But / A Dagger Of The Mind, A False Creation, / Proceeding From The Heat-oppressed Brain?

He's Mad That Trusts In The Tameness Of A Wolf.

I Know A Bank Where The Wild Thyme Blows, Where Oxlips And The Nodding Violet Grows, Quite Over-canopied With Luscious Woodbine, With Sweet Musk-roses And With Eglantine.

To England Will I Steal, And There I'll Steal.

The Rest, Is Silence.