I'll no longer be juggled with. To this point I stand that both the worlds I give to negligence. Let come what comes, only I'll remember both Love and Passion are two vile kings and their kingdoms are two vile kingdoms with halls of dirt and courtrooms of weeds. No daisies grow there for no sunshine can penetrate their walls.

A woman loves too daintily and an artist too ferociously. An agreement between the two is further disturbed by the sometimes frail and sometimes boldness of that vulnerability that is unavoidable to come. Where is Cupid while this is happening? He is sitting up in a tower of Kingdom Passion sharpening his arrows with a dirty and jagged rock. He never misses and always aims for the target of most damage: the heart. What is worse! The winged imp cares not about open wounds! He takes aim at the still bleeding heart as if hitting the bull's-eye would bring him a large cash purse. For the poor artist taking the arrow, I imagine it feels wonderful. After all it plugs the previous hole with its sharpened head and blocks the bleeding for some time. Comes the dainty woman and playfully plucks at the feathers of the shaft and eventually the bleeding starts again only the arrow is lodged deeper because the hole was open before this second arrow hit.

Ah that I should lead a rebellion against these two kingly oppressors Passion and Love. Like the good Laertes coming for Claudius with all his impetuous haste and with his strong riotous head, I should stand to dare damnation. Not like the poor Hamlet who thought too much about heaven and hell while wallowing in the murk from his broken heart like a pig in slop. Not like he who missed every opportunity to ease his troubled soul. With angry tears I should cast conscience and grace to the profoundest pit. I should be revenged most thoroughly for my wounded heart.