“Thus, Marlowe posed the silent question: could aspiring Icarus be happy with a toilsome life on land managing a plough with plodding oxen having once tasted the weightless bliss of flight?”
“For what avail the plough or sail, or land or life, if freedom fail?”
“…had an hour of silent agony that aged him more than years of happy life could have done.”
“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”
“No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillionShine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.”
“Thus my life is a flight and I lose everything and everything belongs to oblivion, or to him.”