Lay Not That Flattering Unction To Your

The Eye Of Man Hath Not Heard, The Ear Of Man Hath Not Seen, Man's Hand Is Not Able To Taste, His Tongue To Conceive, Nor His Heart To Report, What My Dream Was.

Thus Is His Cheek The Map Of Days Outworn.

The Gaudy, Blabbing, And Remorseful Day Is Crept Into The Bosom Of The Sea.

But There Is No Such Man; For, Brother, Men Can Counsel And Speak Comfort To That Grief Which They Themselves Not Feel; But, Tasting It, Their Counsel Turns To Passion, Which Before Would Give Preceptial Medicine To Rage, Fetter Strong Madness In A Silken Thread, Charm Ache With Air And Agony With Words.

I Am But Mad North-north-west. When The Wind Is Southerly, I Know A Hawk From A Handsaw.