And on her undiscoverable journey
The soul sets forth. Nay, but to bleed so far
As I have done, breeds fancies much akin
To death; else would my spirit more revolt
’Gainst this enforcèd quiet and idleness:
This blocking of my life just on the stir
And hurry of hope, when all my operations
Pressed to success. I am surely very weak,
That I can lie and fret not, when I hear
The distant cries, passing from street to street,