He livis at ese that frely livis!
A noble hart may haif nane ese,
Na ellys nocht that may him plese,
Gif fredome fail'th: for fre liking
Is yharnit ouer all othir thing...

--and so on for many lines; all saying the same thing, that man yearns
for Freedom and is glad when he gets it, because then he is free; all
hammering out the same observed fact, but all knocking vainly on the door
of thought, which never opens to explain what Freedom _is_.

Now let us take a leap as we did with prose, and 'taking off' from the
Nut-Brown Maid's artless confession,

in my mind, of all mankind
I love but you alone,

let us alight on a sonnet of Shakespeare's--

Thy bosom is endearéd with all hearts
Which I by lacking have supposéd dead:
And there reigns Love, and all Love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buriéd.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stolen from mine eye
As interest of the dead!--which now appear
But things removed, that hidden in thee lie.
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;