Do You Not Know I Am A

I Was Not Born Under A Rhyming Planet, Nor I Cannot Woo To In Festival Terms.

When A Man's Verses Cannot Be Understood, Nor A Man's Good Wit Seconded With The Forward Child Understanding, It Strikes A Man More Dead Than A Great Reckoning In A Little Room. Truly, I Would The Gods Had Made Thee Poetical.

When To The Sessions Of Sweet Silent Thought I Summon Up Remembrance Of Things Past, I Sigh The Lack Of Many A Thing I Sought.

Why, Universal Plodding Poisons Up The Nimble Spirits In The Arteries, As Motion And Long-during Action Tires The Sinewy Vigor Of The Traveller.

Conscience Doth Make Cowards Of Us All.