[S]he to Almesbury / Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, / And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald / Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: […]

As a protorap song, Dylan's rant ratchets uncannily with the track, the words frequently dissolving into the beat.

“An earl?” / “An earless,” she answered confidently. / Dewhurst blanched. / “No, no!” she hurriedly added, “I meant an earlette.” / He clutched one of the bedposts, knuckles turning white. “A countess,” he said so quietly she could hardly hear him.

In early youth, the living drama acted around me, drew my heart and soul into its vortex.