When that rich soul which to her heaven is gone,
Whom all do celebrate, who know they have one
(For who is sure he hath a soul, unless
It see, and judge, and follow worthiness,
And by deeds praise it? He who doth not this,
May lodge an inmate soul, but 'tis not his)
When that queen ended here her progress time,
And, as t'her standing house, to heaven did climb,
Where loath to make the saints attend her long,
She's now a part both of the choir, and song;
This world, in that great earthquake languished;

Forbear, bold youth, all’ s Heaven here,
And what you do aver,
To others, courtship may appear,
’ Tis sacriledge to her.

She is a publick deity,
And were’ t not very odd
She should depose her self to be
A pretty household god?

First make the sun in private shine,
And bid the world adieu,
That so he may his beams confine
In complement to you.

When you said that you wanted to be useful
as the days of the week, I said, “God bless you.”
Then you said you would not trade our Mondays,
useful for two thousand years,
for the Seven Wonders of the ancient world.
I said, “Endless are the wonders
to which I can only say ‘ah, ’ that our ‘Ah’
who art in heaven can easily become the
‘ah, ah’ that comforts a baby. ” Then you said,
“Go make a living on metaphors for ‘ah,’”
that I, a lunatic, secretly want to be
the Lighthouse of Alexandria,

I have nothing to recant, I am just
the decanter. You, the just destroyer,
have in faith become the role, recalling
for those gathered the noble fallen
with a prayer to his-grace-above-fire,
(“Turn me, I’ m burnt on that side”)
St. Lawrence. Well done, I applaud.
And you: Well executed.

This is it. Not much else to await
when our fates touch: I’ ve nowhere to be
but eternity, you’ ve nothing to catch
but the thatch. Dry on dry,
we keep our wits about us...
no one to meet but our match.