O, What Men Dare Do!

The Lunatic, The Lover, And The Poet, Are Of Imagination All Compact.

Where Art Thou, Muse, That Thou Forget'st So Long / To Speak Of That Which Gives Thee All Thy Might?

Aand In The End, Having My Freedom, Boast Of Nothing Else But That I Was A Journeyman To Grief?

This Night I Hold An Old Accustomed Feast, Whereto I Have Invited Many A Guest, Such As I Love; And You Among The Store, One More, Most Welcome, Makes My Number More.

I Think The King Is But A Man As I Am: The Violet Smells To Him As It Doth To Me.