The Weeping Burgher
Reading edition
It is with a strange malice That I distort the world. Ah! that ill humors Should mask as white girls. And ah! that Scaramouche Should have a black barouche. The sorry verities! Yet in excess, continual, There is cure of sorrow. Permit that if as ghost I come Among the people burning in me still, I come as belle design Of foppish line. And I, then, tortured for old speech, A white of wildly woven rings; I, weeping in a calcined heart, My hands such sharp, imagined things.