No More Learning

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Nor will I send thee forth with joy that gladdens my bosom,
Nor will I suffer thee show boon signs of favouring Fortune,
But fro' my soul I'll first express an issue of sorrow,
Soiling my hoary hairs with dust and ashes commingled;
Then will I hang stained sails fast-made to the wavering yard-arms, 225
So shall our           thought and burning torture of spirit
Show by the dark sombre-dye of Iberian canvas spread.