Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred; a flint will break upon a feather bed.
My tears will keep no channel, know no laws to guide their streams, but like the waves, their cause, run with disturbance till they swallow me as a description of his misery.
I am no Poet here; my pen's the spout where the rain water of my eyes run out.
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom nor forced him wander, but confine him home.
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