All Poets are mad.
That which others hear or read of, I felt and practised myself; they get their knowledge by books, I mine by melancholizing.
I am not poor, I am not rich; nihil est, nihil deest, I have little, I want nothing: all my treasure is in Minerva’s tower…I live still a collegiate student…and lead a monastic life, ipse...
[T]hou canst not think worse of me than I do of myself.
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