I want him to tell me that Missy is in the sauna requesting a massage; do you think spending six hours a day Running with Scissors actually fosters sanguinolency?
@Tryagain,
Do you have verbal diarrhoea?
Was it something he said?
GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD.
by John Donne
LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 172-173.
@Tryagain,
I guess the answer is 'yes' - am I right?
@vonny,
Gah....didn't anyone hear me asking for a massage while I was in the sauna?
@mismi,
Why do you think we all have our ears stuck to the sauna?
@glitterbag,
Where would you rather they were stuck?
@vonny,
Are you saying what I think you're saying?
@glitterbag,
What makes you think he is saying what you think he is saying?
@reasoning logic,
What makes you think he's not?
@spendius,
What makes you think she's a he?
Do the robins still need ice picks?
@alex240101,
Is it Spring already in Texas?
@Lola,
Does it really matter if it's Spring there?
@mismi,
Do you often repeat yourself?
@Stormwatch,
Do I have to answer that?
@Miller,
Are you out of your wits?
