To faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will a amend.

Give me excess of it that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken and so die.

Confine?

Thou knowest no less but all I have unclasped to thee, the book even of my secret soul.

In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran...

I've gone over it again and again and again in my head

Now, from the beginning...