 A nocturnal upon St. Lucie's day, being the shortest day, by John Dunne, read for LibriVox.org by Ann Cheng. Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, Lucie's, who scare seven hours herself unmasked. The sun is spent, and now his flasks send forth light squibs, no constant rays. The world's whole sap is sunk, the general balm the hadroptic earth have drunk. Wither as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, dead and entered. Yet all these seem to laugh, compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be at the next world, that is at the next spring. For I am every dead thing in whom love wrought new alchemy, for his art did express a quintessence, even from nothingness. From dull privations and lean emptiness he ruined me, and I am rebegot of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have. I, by love's limbeck, am the grave of all that's nothing. Off the flood have we too wept, and so drowned the whole world, us too. Off did we grow to be two chaoses, when we did show care to ought else, and often absences we've drew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death, which word wrongs her, of the first nothing, the elixir grown. Were I a man that I were one, I needs must know. I should prefer if I were any beast, some ends, some means. Ye plants, ye stones detest, and love. All, all some properties invest, if I an ordinary nothing were, a shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers for whose sake the lesser son at this time to the goat is run, to fetch new lust and give it to you. Enjoy your summer all. Since she enjoys her long night's festival, let me prepare towards her, and let me call this hour, her vigil, and her eve. Since this, both the years, and the days, deep midnight, is. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, Being the Shortest Day by John Dunn, read for livervox.org by Anna Roberts. Tis the year's midnight, and it is the days, Lucy's, who scare seven hours herself unmasks. The sun is spent, and now his flasks send forth light squibs, no constant rays. The world's whole sap is sunk. The general balm, the hydroptic earth hath drunk. Wither as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, dead and interred. Yet all these seem to laugh, compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me, then, you who shall lovers be, at the next world, that is, at the next spring, for I am every dead thing, in whom love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express a quintessence, even from nothingness, from dull provations, and lean emptiness. He ruined me, and I am rebegot of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have. I, by love's limbbeck, am the grave of all, that's nothing. Off to flood have we two wept, and so drown the whole world us too. Off did we grow to be two chaoses, when we did show care to odd else, and often absences withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death, which word wrongs her, of the first nothing the elixir grown. Where I am man, that I were one, I needs must know, I should prefer, if I were any beast, some ends, some means, ye plants, ye stones detest, and love. All, all some properties invest, if I and ordinary nothing were, as shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun, at this time to the goat's run, to fetch new lust and give it you, enjoy your summer all. Since she enjoys her long night's festival, let me prepare towards her, and let me call this hour her vigil, and her eve, since this, both the years, and the days deep midnight is. The sun is spent, and now his flasks, sent forth light squibs, no constant rays. The world's whole sap is sunk, the general barn, the hydroctic earth, have drunk. Wither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk. Deadened and turd, wither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk. Deadened and turd, wither, as to all these seem to laugh, compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me, then, you who shall lovers be, to the next world, that is, at the next spring, for I am every dead thing, in whom love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express a quintessence even from nothingness, from dull privations, and lean emptiness. He ruined me, and I am rebigot, of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others from all things draw all that's good, life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have, I, by love, slim, beck, am the grave, of all that's nothing, off the flood, have wept too wept and so, drowned the whole world us too, oft did we grow, to be two chaoses, when we did show, care to ought else, and often absences, withdrew our souls, and made us carfaces, that I am by her death, which word wrongs her, of the first nothing the elixir grown, were I a man that I would want, I needs must know I should prefer, if I were any beast, some ends, some means, ye plants, ye stones detest, and love, all, all some properties invest, if I am an ordinary nothing were, a shadow, a light, and body must be here, that I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers for whose sake, the lesser son, to this time to the galt is run, to fetch new lust and give it you, enjoy your summer all, since she enjoys her long night's festival, let me prepare towards her, and let me call, this hour her vigil, and her eve since this, off the years and the days deep midnight is, end of poem, this recording is in the public domain. A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucy's Day, being the shortest day, by John Dunne, read for LibriVox.org by Icy Jumbo, tis the years midnight, and it is the days, Lucy's, whose scarce seven hours her self unmasks, the sun is spent, and now his flasks sent forth light squibs, no constant rays. The world's whole sap is sunk, the general balm the hydroptic earth hath drunk, whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, dead and interred, yet all these seem to laugh compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be at the next world, that is, at the next spring, for I am every dead thing in whom love wrought new alchemy, for his art did express a quintessence even from nothingness, from dull privations, and lean emptiness. He ruined me, and I am rebegot of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have. I, by love's limbeck, am the grave of all, that's nothing. Oft a flood have we too wept, and so drowned the whole world, us too. Oft did we grow to be two chaoses, when we did show care to ought else, and often absences withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am, by her death, which word wrongs her, of the first nothing, the elixir grown, were I a man, that I were one, I needs must know. I should prefer, if I were any beast, some ends, some means. Ye plants, ye stones, detest, and love. All, all some properties invest. If I an ordinary nothing were, as shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser son, at this time to the goat is run, to fetch new lust, and give it you, enjoy your summer all. Since she enjoys her long night's festival, let me prepare towards her, and let me call this hour her vigil, and her eve, since this, both the years, and the days, deep midnight is. 20 December 2008 Tis the years midnight, and tis the days. Lucy's, who's scare seven hours herself, and masks. The sun is spent, and now his flasks send forth light squibs, no constant rays. The world's whole sap is sunk, the general balm the hydroponic earth hath drunk, wither, as to the bed's feet life is shrunk, dead and interred, yet all these seem to laugh, compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be at the next world, that is, at the next spring. For I am every dead thing, in whom love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express a quintessence, even from nothingness, from dull privetations and lean emptiness. He ruined me, and I am rebeggot of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good. Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have. I, by love's limbeck, am the grave of all that's nothing. Off to flood have we two wept, and so drown to the whole world us too. Off did we grow, to be two chaoses, when we did show care to all else, and absences withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death, which word wrongs her. Of the first nothing, the elixir groan. Were I a man? That I were one? I needs must know. I should prefer, if I were any beast. Some ends, some means, ye plants, ye stones detest, and love. All, all some properties invest. If I and ordinary nothing were, a shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun at this time to the goat is run to fetch new lust, and give it to you. Enjoy your summer all, since she enjoys her long night's festival. Let me prepare towards her, and let me call this hour her vigil, and her eve. Since this, both the years and the days deep midnight is, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. All balm that I dropped to girth hath drunk, wither as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, dead and insured. Yet all these seem to laugh compared with me, who am their epitaph. Study me then, you who shall lovers be at the next world, that is at the next spring, for I am every dead thing in whom love wrought new alchemy. For his art did express a quintessence even from nothingness, from dull pervations and lean emptiness. He ruined me, and I am rebegot of absence, darkness, death, things which are not. All others, from all things, draw all that's good, life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have. I, by love's limb-back, am the grave of all that's nothing. Off to flood have we two wept, so drowned the whole world us two. Oft did we grow to be two chaoses, when we did show care to odd else, and often absences withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. But I am by her death which word wrongs her, of the first nothing, the elixir grown. Were I a man, that I were one, I needs must know. I should prefer, if I were any beast, since, some means, ye plants, ye stones, detest and love, all, all some properties invest. If I and ordinary nothing were, as shadow, a light, and body must be here. But I am none, nor will my son renew. You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun at this time to the goat is run, to fetch new lust and give it you, your summer, all. Since she enjoys her long nights festival, let me prepare towards her, and let me call this hour her vigil and her eve, since this both the years and the days deep midnight is. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.