As other men, so I myself do muse Why in this sort I wrest invention so, And why these giddy metaphors I use, Leaving the path the greater part do go. I will resolve you: I am lunatic, And ever this in madmen you shall find, What they last thought of when the brain grew sick In most distraction they keep that in mind. Thus talking idly in this bedlam fit, Reason and I, you must conceive, are twain; "Tis nine years now since first I lost my wit; Bear with me then, though troubled be my brain. With diet and correction men distraught (Not too far past) may to their wits be brought. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BALLADE OF WENCHES by FRANCOIS VILLON SONNET ON SITTING DOWN TO READ KING LEAR ONCE AGAIN by JOHN KEATS WORDLY WISE (10) by MOTHER GOOSE INDEPENDENCE DAY by ROYALL TYLER THE TELLTALE by ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN HUMAN PLEASURE OR PAIN by MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS PREFERENCE by CHARLOTTE BRONTE |