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My clock is as a lever swinging still,
For that which swung is jammed with link;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the angle,
The uncertain appetite of gravity to pull.
By reason, the physics to my clock,
Indifferent that his gravitations are in effect,
Hath tricked me, and I desperate to now improve
Jammed in mesh, which physics did except.
Past noon I am, now Reason is past afternoon,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my screwdriver as madmen's loom,
At random from the mouth vainly expressed;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee a sod,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as shite.