Poetry

Hippolyta
’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of.
Theseus
More strange than true. I never may believe
These antique fables nor these fairy toys.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
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