Furniss: That aching, empty space that will never be filled
Donnelly: We will have to find a new way to talk to each other

Wyatt: My poor true heart all comfortless


If in the world there be more woe
than I have in my heart,
whereso it is, it doth come fro,
and in my breast there doth it grow,
for to increase my smart.
Alas, I am receipt of every care,
and of my life each sorrow claims his part. 
Who list to live in quietness
by me let him beware,
for I by high disdain
am made without redress,
and unkindness, alas, hath slain

my poor true heart all comfortless.

Thomas Wyatt (1503–1542)


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