It Is Silliness To Live When To

My Hounds Are Bred Out Of The Spartan Kind; So Flew'd, So Sanded; Their Heads Are Hung With Ears That Sweep Away The Morning Dew.

A Man I Am Cross'd With Adversity.

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

For I Can Raise No Money By Vile Means. By Heaven, I Had Rather Coin My Heart, And Drop My Blood For Drachmas

So Well Thy Words Become Thee As Thy Wounds.