why wilt thou examine every little fibre of my soul,
spreading them out before the sun like stalks of flax to dry?
..... naught shalt thou find in it but Death, Despair & Everlasting brooding Melancholy.
thou wilt go mad with horror if thou dost examine thus
every moment of my secret hours.
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: "Pipe a song about a Lamb." So I piped with merry cheer; "Piper, pipe that song again." So I piped; he wept to hear.