I am no Poet here; my pen's the spout where the rain water of my eyes run out.
From John Cleveland
Love melts the rigor which the rocks have bred; a flint will break upon a feather bed.
Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom nor forced him wander, but confine him home.
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.
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