That Is My Home Of

Fit For The Mountains And The Barbarous Caves, Where Manners Ne'er Were Preached.

Love Surfeits Not, Lust Like A Glutton Dies; Love Is All Truth, Lust Full Of Forged Lies

The Wind-shak'd Surge, With High And Monstrous Main, Seems To Cast Water On The Burning Bear, And Quench The Guards Of The Ever-fixed Pole.

And All My Mother Came Into Mine Eyes And Gave Me Up To Tears.

O, Let My Books Be Then The Eloquence And Dumb Presagers Of My Speaking Breast, Who Plead For Love, And Look For Recompense, More Than That Tongue That More Hath More Expressed.