tis an unweeded garden that grows to seed
Frederick S. Church
“The Witch’s Daughter”
they say the owl was a baker’s daughter
such love must needs be treason in my breast
Is it not monstrous that this player here,
but in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
could force his soul so to his own conceit
that from her working all his visage wanned,
tears in his eyes, distraction in his aspect,
a broken voice, and his whole function suiting
with forms to his conceit - and all for nothing!
What’s hecuba to him, or he to hecuba,
That he should weep for her?