I never made a way out of hell
neither did I come from sub-sections of hatred
the blossoms are too rigid
the night cries blood, what if I am just a stranger?
...
Hence vain deluding joyes,
The brood of folly without father bred,
How little you bested,
Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toyes;
Dwell in som idle brain,
And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless
As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,
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