And so, my friends, here am I
Solitary, yet unquiet, head rather strained
From too many figures, and too little rest,
And some other strain, the unquietest

Of knowing that I know not what I do,
That I do not what I know is true,
That I live, eyes in wool, ears full;
That I live, without time for mine own.

How little awake! How easily forgot
All my dreams; and those principles
Which I thought straight pillars
Were but ideas, sunk beneath the bloated wool.

Sometime when I am busy, and tired,
I say, give thee grace,
But I need no grace, nor sympathy,
For my plight is from aimlessness.

I need some honest bitterness,
To clear away the wool.
I need less talking with friends, who,
Though true, prevent me from discoursing
With mine own.

My brain has been too full to be fertile,
The soil o’erplanted for too many seasons
With the same crop. ‘Tis impoverished,
And I most need it to be restored.