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prithee, o great destiel: bear me only pleasant news
when dawn my heart breaks cross’t
pray, sweet picture: paint on my canvasséd soul;
a message more lithe than it’s messenger-
evils turn doth evil’s turn; but one spits my eye,
the other; my shoe- pray, good messr., where you’ll run frew?
o! thine eyes to glitter falsely with dawn’s blue baubles!
o! thine hands haply to clasp in thanks, nigh yet prayer!
o! that you have len’t your knees a’fore your patron as i might the maddona in prattled comfort o’ worship!
o, dear lordship, i lay my head to thine boots, mine suit laid yet lower than the hems of your own! employ this invention of mine, brave weapon: keep up your blade; for the gnashing of dawn’s teardrops do rust all the bright swords!
bear bright pleasants; fine caites and gemstones: no such jades! thrones may be carved of jade; go to, my lord, but see you any such jade lying suit to bear waiting, to hold weight? carry, sweet lordship, tales of higher rounds in the dark valley, where beneath such roads even the pale halv’d light o’ sickened moonlit’s hope does nigh reach!
carry on those red wings of scorching sun fortune, dear destiel- wave that blue and valiant flag of sky before you, and let it cloak all the world’s stage behind!