Who Soars Too Near The Sun, With

The Due Of Honor In No Point Omit.

If Ever (as That Ever May Be Near) You Meet In Some Fresh Cheek The Power Of Fancy, Then Shall You Know The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen, Arrows Make.

There's Not A Shirt And A Half In All My Company, And The Half Shirt Is Two Napkins Tacked Together And Thrown Over The Shoulders Like A Herald's Coat Without Sleeves.

For There Was Never Yet Philosoper That Could Endure The Toothache Patiently, However They Have Writ The Style Of Gods, And Made A Push At Chance And Sufferance.

Fare Thee Well, King: Sith Thus Thou Wilt Appear, Freedom Lives Hence, And Banishment Is Here.