Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee.

My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirred;And I myself see not the bottom of it.

But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,Chaos is come again.

Degenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee

I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, because it’s an enemy to thee.

Were I like thee, I'd throw away myself.