These Words Are Razors To My Wounded

Now No Way Can I Stray; Save Back To England, All The World's My Way.

And Makes Me Poor Indeed.

So Shalt Thou Feed On Death, That Feeds On Men.

Then Let Thy Love Be Younger Than Thyself, Or Thy Affection Cannot Hold The Bent.

Who Can Be Wise, Amazed, Temperate And Furious, Loyal And Neutral, In A Moment? No Man.