Go up to London, to London, that great City, write, write, write. And behold I writ, and lo a hand was sent to me, and a roll of book was therein, which this fleshly hand would have put wings to, before the time. Whereupon it was snatcht out of my hand, & the Roll thrust into my mouth, and I eat it up, and filled my bowels with it, where it was as bitter as worm-wood; and it lay broiling, and burning in my stomack, till I brought it forth in this forme.
And now I send it flying to thee, with my heart, And all.
He adjusts his predatory swoop in line with the quivering needle of the bat compass
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