But soft! What light through yonder lecture hall window breaks?
It is Wittgenstein, and his girl is the sun!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious errors,
who are already sick and pale with grief
That thou art far and more fair than them
But not their maid, since they are envious.
Their vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do make them. Cast it off.
It is my girl; O it is my Wittgenstein Girl!
O that she knew she were!
She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that
Her mouth discourses; I will answer it.
I will find her, I am too bold
‘tis not to me she speaks.