Poor Intricated Soul! Riddling, Perplexed,

The Day Breaks Not, It Is My Heart.

I Wonder, By My Troth, What Thou And I Did, Till We Lov'd?

But I Do Nothing Upon Myself, And Yet I Am My Own Executioner.

Come Live With Me, And Be My Love, And We Will Some New Pleasures Prove Of Golden Sands, And Crystal Brooks, With Silken Lines, And Silver Hooks.

Doth Not A Man Die Even In His Birth? The Breaking Of Prison Is Death, And What Is Our Birth, But A Breaking Of Prison?