Oh do not die, for I shall hate All women so, when thou art gone.
Poor intricated soul! Riddling, perplexed, labyrinthical soul!
ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee
Women are like the arts, forced unto none, Open to all searchers, unprized, if unknown.
Full nakedness! All my joys are due to thee, as souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be, to taste whole joys.
For love all love of other sights controls and makes one little room an everywhere