Good Is Not Good, Unless

Friends Are Ourselves.

At The Round Earth's Imagined Corners, Blow Your Trumpets, Angels.

Whilst My Physicians By Their Love Are Grown Cosmographers, And I Their Map, Who Lie Flat On This Bed.

Women Are Like The Arts, Forced Unto None, Open To All Searchers, Unprized, If Unknown.

I Wonder By My Troth, What Thou, And I Did, Till We Loved? Were We Not Weaned Till Then? But Sucked On Country Pleasures, Childishly? Or Snorted We In The Seven Sleepers' Den?