The Flea, Though He Kill

Send Home My Long Strayed Eyes To Me, Which (oh) Too Long Have Dwelt On Thee.

Man Hath Weaved Out A Net, And This Net Throwne Upon The Heavens, And Now They Are His Own.

Filled With Her Love, May I Be Rather Grown Mad With Much Heart, Than Idiot With None.

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

To Rage, To Lust, To Write To, To Commend, All Is The Purlieu Of The God Of Love.