A thousand martyrs I have made
before I came to Holloway.

Come back to me, who wait and watch for you:
disarm’d with so genteel an air

Every morning at half-past four,
for love he offers me his perfect world.

God, on us they mercy show!
He dreamed that he bestrode the sun!

I am that serpent-haunted cave.
Leave him: he’s quiet enough: and what matter?

Me, dear Ephelia, me, in vain you court:
no coward soul is mine.

Observe the weary birds ere night be done;
she reigns in the tarred cottage in the corn.

The body is no more thy house —
we leave our homes in the morning.

You must break through old thought.

. . . . . . .

spb: so