I am no Poet here; my pen's the spout where the rain water of my eyes run out.
Copied to Clipboard
Copied to Clipboard
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.
Copied to Clipboard
Copied to Clipboard
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom nor forced him wander, but confine him home.