Rapid old fool, unruly Sun, Why dost thou thus,
Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Shining life on dead mud and dust stirred by the Father, Life.
Must to thy motions lovers' seasons run? Lazy arc, there is only our sweet time to pursue. Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide Late school-boys and sour prentices, listening to the sounds of their own confusion. Go tell court-huntsmen that the king willride, and to me the prey he will come. To me his end rides he again.
Calling along the way country ants to harvest offices; appointing the lowly above this King of oppression unto self, and I. Our desires are not love but Gods word echoing in us, if clarity allows its Chiming, then your ears are hearing me.
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime, a self made weather shinning in upon these darkness eyes no longer held drowning, I breathe my first breath.
Nor hours, days, months, which are the
rags of time, logic cannot be polished enough to even reflect the indirect light of Christ.
Thy beams so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou think, I cannot be saved. For Christ is already within you and you are the forsaken, forsaken by yourself.
I could eclipse and cloud them with a
wink, but that is not freedom. The sun shines where it likes and not where greed would like it to be.
But that I would not lose her sight so long. To be in darkness eternal, only if she be happy with me there.
If her eyes have not blinded thine, I could have no mortal spot be illuminated. To see that light which is all cause is far above a simple lovers Ken.
Look, and to-morrow late tell me,
Whether both the Indias of spice and mine Be where thou left them, or lie here alone without the aid of varieties comforting in silence grace
with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw yesterday, And thou shalt hear, "All here in one bed lay."
She's all states, and all princes I; Nothing else is; a world already redeemed in her breast, touching my own. Reckless abandon in our forbidden union of this morning running short or eternal.
Princes do but play us; compared to this, All honour's mimic, all wealth alchemy. Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we, In that the world's contracted thus; we return and take the solar place in heaven. To burn up all illusion of the impatient grasping turns of the metaphysical theaters passing scenes. Burned up, there is no darkness but the fire that is Jesus Christ burning up my inequities reward.
This is the metaphysical theater
John Done-John Tvrz